Hunter whispered, “Mom said I’m not supposed to have that.”
The man leaned closer. “She doesn’t know you come here.”
My blood ran cold.
I pushed the door open. “Hunter!”
My son jumped in surprise. The man immediately stood up.
I rushed over and pulled Hunter behind me.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
The stranger raised his hands. “I’m not going to hurt him.”
“Then why are you alone with my son?”
Hunter tugged at my sleeve. “Mom, please.”
I ignored him and looked at the object on the table. It was a small red metal truck with a chipped wheel and faded pink paint across its hood.
I stopped breathing.
I recognized that truck immediately. Daniel, Hunter’s father, had bought it at a flea market when Hunter was two. I still remembered the photograph of my little boy sitting on our kitchen floor, holding the toy while Daniel made silly engine noises beside him.
