Into the Lion’s Den

Back in the hospital room, I looked at Clara’s chart. Ulnar fracture. Multiple deep tissue contusions. Cracked seventh rib. Mild concussion.

“I’m going to your house,” I told her.

“Mom, no,” she whimpered. “Dustin will…”

“Dustin,” I said quietly, “is about to learn what happens when you corner a wolf and mistake her for a sheep. I am going to get Laya.”

I took a cab to the address in Dorchester. From the outside, the two-story house looked normal. Inside, it was a war zone of filth.

The smell hit me first—stale beer, unwashed bodies, and rotting food. The living room was a disaster of pizza boxes and stained carpet. Two women were sprawled on a sagging sofa, watching a reality show.

The older one, heavy-set with bad dye-job blonde hair, was Brenda, Dustin’s mother. The younger one, thin and sharp-faced, was his sister, Karen.

“Oh, it’s you,” Brenda drawled, barely looking away from the TV. cigarette dangling from her lip. “Clara ain’t here. She ‘fell’. Clumsy idiot.”

“Kitchen’s a mess,” Karen added. “Make yourself useful if you’re staying.”