I pressed my forehead against the wall in the hallway.
“Then why did you tell him not to tell me? Why make a five-year-old keep a secret from his mother?”
“Cece, come on.”
“Don’t Cece me. Answer the question.”
He exhaled slowly. “I’ve been picking up less overtime. A lot less. I didn’t want you worrying about money on top of everything else you do. So I made up the game to keep him busy at night when I got in late. That’s it.”
I closed my eyes.
Something in his voice was wrong.
“How long has the overtime been down?”
“A few weeks.”
“How many is a few?”
“I don’t know. Two months, maybe. Cece, I’m at the hotel; I’ve got an early call. Can we do this Sunday when I’m home?”
“No, Brandon. We can do this now.”
“Please.”
He said it so softly it stopped me. He rarely begged for anything.
