I swallowed.
The next sentence made me sit back.
What I am about to tell you may hurt you, and I am sorry for that.
My breath caught.
Owen wrote that in 2000, he had been homeless and running with several older boys who survived however they could—stealing from parked cars, shops, storage units, anywhere they thought there was something worth selling.
Then, shortly before Daniel’s funeral, someone gave them a tip.
A young man was going to be buried with an expensive new digital camera.
My breath caught.
I kept reading.
I remembered placing Daniel’s camera beside him myself.
And suddenly I understood something terrible.
Owen had known about my son before I ever sat beside him on that sidewalk.
I kept reading.
Owen wrote that one of the funeral-home workers had been willing to look the other way for cash.
A few bills.
That was all it had taken.
