“I’m not trying to replace her,” Denise said quietly. “But while she’s gone, you’re stuck with me. So here’s the deal: you run, I chase. Every time.”
“Ezekiel Chase, you stop right there.”
Chase barely had time to shove his hands in his pockets before his mother’s voice— her mother’s voice—cut through the October dusk.
Chase stared at her. The streetlights flickered on. Somewhere two blocks over, a kid who looked exactly like him but moved like a stranger was probably breaking his real mom’s heart right now.
“I’m not going to a support group,” he said.