But some of the tension left his shoulders.
Then she asked him about the man.
Slowly, Ethan began talking.
He had first seen him down the block from school.
Not directly at the gate. Closer to the corner where I usually picked him up after soccer practice.
The man had shown Ethan a photograph.
An old one.
In the picture, he stood beside Ryan.
Both were younger.
Both were smiling.
Their arms were around each other’s shoulders.
“He knew Dad,” Ethan said.
To a nine-year-old desperate for memories of his dead father, that photograph had been enough.
The man told him stories.
Things about Ryan that I had apparently never shared with him.
“He knew stuff you didn’t know,” Ethan said.
That hurt.
Not because Ethan had done anything wrong.
Because someone had found the exact empty space inside my child.
And stepped into it.
Officer Patel asked,
“Did he ever follow you home?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he try to get you into a car?”
“No.”
“Did he give you anything?”
Ethan hesitated.
Only for a moment.
But everyone noticed.
“Ethan?” I said.
He grabbed my hand.
Then pointed toward the front door.
“I hid it.”
