“He told me stories about Dad,” Ethan said. “Stuff Mom doesn’t know.”
That hurt more than it should have.
Ryan had died when Ethan was six. I had photographs and videos, but Ethan’s memories were thinning at the edges. Apparently, a stranger offering new pieces of his father had found exactly the door to open.
Officer Patel asked whether the man had ever followed Ethan home.
“I don’t think so.”
“Has he ever given you anything?”
Ethan hesitated. The officer noticed. So did I.
“Ethan?”
Ethan grabbed my hand and pointed toward the front door. “I hid it over there.”
Officer Patel stood. “Hid what?”
Ethan pointed toward the umbrella stand beside the coat closet. My stomach dropped. An officer moved us into the kitchen while his partner approached the closet.
A few minutes later, he returned.
He asked me whether I owned a small black case they’d found behind a box of winter boots.
