didn’t have an appetite, and it had nothing to do with the particularly gruesome crime scene he’d just left.
That evening, as he’d worked his way around the bedroom of a young couple who’d been brutally murdered as they slept, all Sterling could hear were the words Celeste had hurled at him earlier.
I can’t do this anymore!
She’d stopped him cold in his tracks with that statement. Though they’d argued many times over the years—especially in recent months—tonight’s confrontation had been different. Because tonight was the closest Celeste had ever come to asking Sterling for a divorce.
He was still reeling with shock.
Grabbing a cold beer from the refrigerator, he popped open the can and took a healthy swig as he left the kitchen. Instead of heading to his bedroom on the second floor, he made his way down a creaky flight of stairs to reach the basement.
Not surprisingly, both of his sons were still up watching television, the glow from the screen providing the room’s only illumination. Michael was sprawled across the worn leather sofa, while Marcus lay on his stomach on the floor with his chin propped in his hands. They were watching The Chinese Connection , an old martial arts action film starring Bruce Lee. They’d seen it so many times they could recite nearly every line of dialogue, and sometimes when they were feeling playful after watching the movie, they’d test their karate moves on each other, arguing over who was the better fighter.
But there would be none of that tonight, Sterling concluded. One look at his sons’ gloomy countenances, and he knew that they’d overheard the argument between him and Celeste.
Suppressing a heavy sigh of frustration, he advanced into the shadowy room.
“Hey, fellas.”
They glanced over at him. “Hey, Dad.”
Michael sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the sofa to make room for his father as Marcus rolled over and leaned back on his elbows to regard Sterling.
He smiled, nodding toward the television. “I see you’re watching one of your old favorites.”
“Yeah,” Michael grunted.
“ ‘This time you are eating paper,’ ” Sterling said in his best imitation of Bruce Lee’s accented voice. “ ‘Next time it will be glass.’ ” The familiar joke fell flat, coaxing only halfhearted smiles out of Michael and Marcus.
Sterling grimaced. “Tough crowd,” he muttered, taking a sip of his beer.
“Sorry, Dad,” they mumbled dispiritedly.
He chuckled. “No need to apologize. I probably need to come up with new material anyway.”
Michael and Marcus exchanged troubled glances that undoubtedly had nothing to do with their father’s lame voice impersonations.
Knowing he could no longer ignore the elephant in the room, Sterling blew out a deep, weary breath. “What’s on your mind, boys?” They shared another uneasy glance.
“Are you and Ma getting a divorce?” Marcus blurted.
When Sterling winced, Michael scowled at his brother. “Nice going, Little Man. Real subtle.”
“What?” Marcus protested, taking umbrage. “Isn’t that what we wanted to ask him?”
“Not like that,” Michael growled.
“It’s okay,” Sterling intervened before an argument erupted. “You didn’t say anything wrong, Marcus. You both have a right to know what’s going on between me and your mother.”
“We heard you fighting,” Marcus whispered. “So did Quentin.”
“I know,” Sterling said grimly, “and I’m real sorry about that. We should have kept our voices down.”
“You tried to, but Ma made you mad.” Marcus frowned, nervously chewing on his thumbnail. “Why’s she so sad all the time?”
“Because she thinks we’re poor,” Michael said bitterly. “She wants things we can’t afford.”
“Now hold on,” Sterling interjected, putting a hand on Michael’s rigid forearm. “I don’t want this to turn into a gripe session about your mama. No matter what you may have heard tonight, or how upset you may
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