‘Such beautiful children. Max may be taking after his father, but look at little Olive. The spit of you.’
He puts a stack of photo prints on the bar. There’s the bright glint in his eyes again; the glint you mistook for mischief. It’s malice, maybe with a little madness mixed in?
‘What did you want to talk about, my lovely?’
You lack the breath to speak the words you prepared.
You traded in
Security for threats
Of the innocent.