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with the hip-hop life, life in the street that leads nowhere.
     Will you please let this go, and just keep doing the right things? Don’t make me take away your car, because I will do it.”
    “I do all the right things, Mom, just admit it.” M.J. shrugged into a T-shirt before lying back on his elbows. “Good grades,
     athletic scholarships coming at me from all directions, no pregnant girls showing up on my doorstep . . . what more you want?”
    “No more rides with Dante,” Cassie said. “I mean it.”
    “I don’t get it,” M.J. replied, his eyes narrowing slowly. “I thought you and Dad was going to ream me good the other night
     after that cop dropped me off, but you ain’t said ‘boo’ since. I know you and Dad have been all lovey-dovey since he came
     back home, but he seem like he don’t even know about it.”
    Cassie bit her lower lip and turned away. She hadn’t raised the issues around Detective Whitlock’s visit for a good reason
     —she had no intention of involving Marcus in any of this. She had bet everything on M.J.’s desire to avoid the subject with
     his father, and it was clear that bet had paid off. With Marcus away on a business trip for the next two days, Cassie saw
     this evening as her chance to strike.
    “Your father and I,” she said, her eyes on M.J.’s Chaminade football team portrait, “had to talk about all that the past couple
     of days, to determine the appropriate reaction.” Her confidence stabilized, she turned back toward her son. “We’ve agreed
     that we don’t want to overdo a punishment; you haven’t done anything wrong yet except keep bad company. So as long as you
     pay your own speeding ticket and tell Dante that you can’t hang with him anymore, all is forgiven.”
    M.J. remained back on his elbows, eyes full of barely suppressed amusement. “If it makes you all feel better, you’ve got a
     deal.”
    “Promise me before God, M.J.”
    “I promise,” he said as his cell phone sprang to life with one hip-hop ring tone or another. Winking, he grabbed it from his
     nightstand. “Later, Mom.”
    Cassie stepped into the hallway, closing the door shut behind her and feeling a complete absence of peace.
He literally thinks he knows everything.
God had blessed M.J. with so much success, it seemed her son believed he was above the rules of the universe. If Cassie didn’t
     revoke his access to the Toyota Highlander they’d purchased for him, she was sure he’d be riding the streets with Dante even
     sooner than she liked to think. But how would she explain that punishment to Marcus?
    Cassie felt her teeth grind involuntarily as she realized she would have to take drastic action first and figure out how to
     handle Marcus later. Hers were not a mother’s natural, general worries for a son’s welfare. A very real, specific monster
     lurked out there, and Cassie alone knew of his existence.
    “If I don’t get what I want,
” Pete Whitlock had said before driving away that first terrifying day,
“I start with the low-hanging fruit. Whether he’s with Dante or not, I can have M.J.’s story end like the daily tragedies
     you see on every night’s local news.”
    “Headed toward bed in here?” Cassie forced a smile as she popped into the twins’ spacious loft room. There were two extra
     bedrooms upstairs, but to Cassie’s pleasant surprise, Heather and Hillary had insisted on sharing this one. Each one had her
     own twin bed, desk, and iMac computer on opposite sides of the room, but they shared everything and often sat up well past
     bedtime giggling and gossiping like the preteen girls they were.
    As Cassie took a seat at Hillary’s desk chair and watched the girls change into their pajamas, she quizzed them informally
     about their respective homework assignments, potential boyfriends, and the next day’s after-school activities —soccer for
     Heather, Chinese club for Hillary. As she encouraged them to climb into bed, kissing cheeks and