The laptop lid snapped shut so fast it made me jump.
It was 1:47 in the morning. A Tuesday in late April. I’d gotten up for a glass of water and seen the blue glow under my son’s bedroom door.
“Wyatt. It’s almost two.”
“I know. Sorry. Going to bed.”
He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with the laptop pressed flat under both hands, like it might jump up and run away. His hair hung past his shoulders. Long. Brown. Tangled at the ends.
But I’d seen the screen for a second before the lid came down.
An email. The top line, in bold.
Dear Mr. Quinn, Thank you for your inquiry regarding your daughter.
Mr. Quinn.
Harper’s father.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing. School thing. We have to write fake business letters for English. Role-play.”
He looked me straight in the eye when he said it.
My son had never been a good liar. He’d always looked away. Always.
