Sean came out from the shooting with shaking fists. “What the hell?” He slammed a fist into the soda machine before he caught her staring.
“I wouldn’t buy a soda from that machine for a week or so if I were you,” she said, watching it vibrate on its heavy haunches.
“How could you write that? What kind of sicko are you?” he demanded.
She tilted her head. “The kind of sicko who writes screenplays,” she said calmly. “What bothered you so much about it?”
“What both–” He sputtered. “What kind of woman is that? I can see where her son got his DNA!”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” she frowned.
“Maybe not,” he said crossly, “but it’s nothing comparing to blaming that poor girl for driving her husband to drink!”
She smiled. “Who else is she going to blame? Her son’s nowhere to be found, and here’s this girl claiming he hurt her. She’s a mother. Who’s she going to believe, her son by blood or her daughter-in-law?”
“She has to know what kind of person he is,” Sean argued.
“Maybe she does,” she said. “But he’s not around for her to yell at, now is he?”
He stared at her a moment. “You’re telling me she’s just blaming her because she’s the only one there?”
She returned his stare. “Sean,” she said gently. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
