I folded the letter. I put it in my bag. I thanked Mrs. Dilmore, who squeezed my hand at the door and didn’t say anything, which was exactly right.
I sat in my car in the school parking lot for a few minutes.
Part of me wanted to call Charlie immediately. To ask him directly, whatever the question was, to skip the path Owen had laid out and go straight to the answer. But Owen had been specific, and Owen had been specific for a reason — he always was — and I had learned over thirteen years of being his mother that when he laid something out carefully, it was worth following.
I drove to Charlie’s office building and parked across the street.
I sent a text: “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
Charlie’s reply came back in three minutes. “Late meeting, don’t wait up. I’ll grab something on the way home.”
