William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“That is enough, Owen,” Marsha said, her voice sharp as a razor. “Do not tell stories.”
“He is not telling stories, Marsha,” I said, my voice dropping to a level I had never used with her before.
“My mother would never do that,” Marsha said, turning to look out her own window. “The dog was old. It was falling apart anyway.”
I reached into my pocket and felt the small brass bell of the collar, its cold edge pressing against my thigh.
I knew then that the twelve-thousand-dollar withdrawal was not for a private kindergarten, and the suspension on Sue’s license was not a clerical error.
There was a paper trail somewhere in our house, a document that would prove exactly what they were planning to do with my son.
I needed to find where Marsha had hidden the contract for the New Horizons camp before the week was over.
Owen stared out the car window, clutching his bare left wrist where the red marks used to be.
On Monday morning, the gravel driveway was empty by eight o’clock.
