Finally, I decided I’d had enough of the guessing. I spent my Friday night printing out copies of every single citation. I took a red pen and circled the dates, the times, and the locations. I laid them out on the counter like a map of his deceits.

Saturday morning, he was dead to the world on the sofa. I walked right past him, grabbed his keys off the hook by the door, and went out to the garage. I didn’t want to do it. I really didn’t. But I needed to know who was sitting in that driver’s seat when he wasn’t at the warehouse.

I pulled the door open. The interior smelled like cheap cigarettes and old gym bags. That wasn’t Caleb. He didn’t smoke.

I checked the glove box first. It was jammed with crumpled fast-food wrappers and a half-empty pack of those cigarettes. Underneath the trash, I found a receipt from a motel I’d never heard of. It was dated from last Tuesday. That was the night he told me he had to work a double shift.

I felt like the floor was tilting under my feet. I opened the center console next. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I knew it would be bad. Tucked into the back, hidden under the owner’s manual, was a heavy, black burner phone.

I didn’t even have to turn it on to know what it was.

I had seen enough police shows to recognize the look of it. I sat there in the driver’s seat, my legs feeling like lead. I realized then that he wasn’t just working a night job. He was running something. Maybe it was drugs, maybe it was something else, but it was enough to make him lie to his own mother for weeks.

I heard the back door of the garage creak. I didn’t even turn around. I knew it was him.

“Mom?” he said. His voice was different. It wasn’t the smooth, lying voice he used over coffee. It was sharp. It was scared.

I finally turned to look at him. He was standing in the doorway, his hair a mess, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he saw the phone in my hand, his whole face changed. The boy was gone.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked. He didn’t walk toward me. He just stood there, waiting.

I held up the phone. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I was too tired for that.

“Is this yours?” I asked.

He stayed silent for a second. The air in the garage felt heavy, like it was about to storm.

“Give it to me,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I think I’m going to call the sheriff.”

“You won’t,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a threat.

“Try me,” I said.