My son had been thirteen when he gave me the card. But the account had existed long before the custody hearing.
Someone had been preparing for this.
And I had no idea why.
Margaret Ellis called at 8:15 the following morning.
She was a composed woman in her late fifties, with silver-framed glasses and a voice that made every sentence sound deliberate.
We met at her office downtown.
The first thing she did was ask me to hand over the card.
I hesitated.
She noticed.
“Your caution is appropriate,” she said. “But I assure you, I’m not here to take anything from you.”
“That’s exactly what someone trying to take something would say.”
For the first time, she smiled.
“Your son was right about you.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“You know Tyler?”
“I’ve met him twice. More importantly, I knew his grandfather.”
I stared at her.
Harrison’s father, Richard Cole, had died four years earlier. I had attended his funeral with Tyler, but I hadn’t been close to him during my marriage.
