“What changed?”
“Claudia believes he’ll go back to normal—whatever that means—once he’s done with some high-profile project at work.”
“What about kids?”
“One adult son. I’m not sure what kind of hold the father has on him. Claudia seemed reluctant to get him involved.”
“He’s a grown-ass man.”
She shrugged, bending to pick up a shattered frame. The torn picture inside was of her and a younger Brodie in swimwear going down a water-gurgling slide. “Mothers are wired to protect their cubs, no matter their age.”
“What does the husband do for a living?” He moved toward the wall of superhero posters.
“Owns a shop that specializes in performance of turbocharged vehicles. Don’t ask me to explain.”
“It means they make sports cars look cooler and go a helluva lot faster.” He ripped down what was left of the posters and removed the thumb tacks. “Think she’ll go back to him?”
“The odds aren’t in her favor. On average, survivors leave and return to their abusers six times before getting out for good.”
“Damn.”
“Every situation is unique, but survivors generally have multiple, complicated reasons for staying—or returning.” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I take it the husband knows you’ve been assisting his wife?”
Her expression turned sheepish.
“Spill it.”
“Before this,” she waved her hand around the room, “I would have said no.”
“But now?”
“She must have told him or maybe he saw me or—I don’t know.”
“Saw you, when?”
She winced. “When Claudia left the shelter the first time, I followed her home.”
“You did what?”
“It was stupid, I know.” She released an exhausted sigh. “But I wanted to see.”
“See what?”
She shrugged. “That she was safe. The bastard’s face. Birdshit on the window. Hell if I know. There was no logic to my actions. I just wanted to see.”
“And?”
“They hugged, then went inside.” A line of concentration creased her forehead. “Her son Alan was there, too, though that fact didn’t make me feel any better about the situation.”
“Why not?”
Another shrug. “The only thing that would have felt right was Claudia staying at the center.” Sadness entered eyes. “Seems I was right. Hooray.”
He avoided bringing up the O’Fallon case. Reminding her about the former politician who had decided to establish a legacy for his five kids by selling priceless artifacts on the dark web—or wherever one sold stolen antiquities these days—might put her over the edge.
He slid a hand around the back of her neck and drew her close. “You did what you could.”