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people, Mom? As if they’re any different from us?” Hypocrisy was one of my mother’s star attributes.
    “That isn’t fair.”
    “Fair? Do you actually think life is fair?”
    My mother sighed. “I didn’t say that.”
    “You just said it.” I tried not to snap. It would only cause an argument I couldn’t win. “And I do important work. I help families, and every once in a while I help put a piece of trash behind bars. I’m sorry my work puts me in contact with “those kinds of people.’”
    “You’re twisting my words. I never said there was anything wrong with the type of people you help.”
    A familiar ache pulsed in the back of my neck. I knew better than to get sucked into this game. “Fine. So what did you call for?”
    “Because you never call me. Here I am, with only Mack and my daughter as family, and you choose to ignore me.” My mother sniffled. I imagined her dabbling her nose with a scratchy tissue. She never bought the name brand. “What if something happened to me? How terrible would you feel then? Would I finally get some attention?”
    My tired body sagged into the chair. I hated that after all she’d done–and all the things she didn’t do–my mother still had the ability to make me feel like the bad child.
    “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”
    Another sniffle. “I hope so.”
    My throat knotted. The blades of a thousand knives dug into the back of my neck. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t love my mother. If some part of me still didn’t long for her approval. For her affection.
    She cleared her throat and sighed–a signal the conversation was taking a turn. “Are you seeing anyone?”
    I groaned. My mother fit the passive-aggressive, yet excessively nosy cliché mother mold perfectly. And we’d had this conversation the last time we saw each other. Did she really think I’d met some Casanova in a few days’ time? “Not seriously, no.”
    “What happened to the doctor?”
    He wasn’t a doctor. He was the chemist who provided me the cyanide. But my mother couldn’t know that, so I said he was a pediatrician. Wasn’t a total lie, as he did have a doctorate.
    “I see him occasionally. We’re both busy.”
    “You’re thirty-four years old,” my mother said. “A couple more years, and pregnancy will be a bigger risk for you.”
    “Women in their forties have babies all the time, Mom. Besides, I’m not sure I want kids.”
    Vigilante killer of pedophiles and mother. Somehow those two ideas didn’t gel.
    “Lucy, I’d like to have grandkids, and you’re my only hope.” The self-indulgent, whiney tone made my teeth grind.
    “And why is that, Mother?”
    “Please don’t bring up your sister’s death now.”
    “I didn’t. You did.” Twenty-two years ago, my sister had taken her own life because of our mother’s sick boyfriend. Anger burned inside the usually hollow pit of my heart. I tasted it in my mouth, felt it in my pounding head. The same anger that fueled my extracurricular activity threatened to overwhelm me.
    “You know, I lost a child.” Now Mother sounded petulant. She probably looked like she was sucking on a lemon. “I suffered more than you can imagine.”
    “I think you forget it was Lily who suffered the most.”
    “You know I did the best I could.”
    The best she could was turning a blind eye to all the obvious signs her live-in boyfriend was abusing her oldest daughter. Even when I insisted something wasn’t right, Joan ignored me. And then my sister was gone. As I got older, I could have forgiven my mother’s ignorance. I couldn’t forgive the way she used my sister’s suicide to evoke sympathy and manipulate everyone around her. She excelled in an argument, never failing to make herself the victim regardless of the barbs she dished out. Debating with her was a waste of energy.
    I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just really stressed out right now. A little girl went missing after school yesterday, and I’m afraid one