Then she laughed.
Not a startled laugh. Not an anxious one.
A cold, pleased laugh.
“You should never have left him with me,” she said.
My blood turned to ice.
“What did you do?”
Before she could answer, I heard Madison in the background.
“He never listens,” my sister said in a flat voice. “He got what he deserved.”
Noah was six.
He loved plastic dinosaurs, strawberry yogurt, and sleeping with only one sock on because he said wearing two made his “feet angry.” He cried during movies when animals got lost. He still crawled into my bed during thunderstorms, pressing his tiny forehead against my shoulder until sleep finally claimed him.
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