Wyatt shrank down in the chair.
“And you might have saved her life,” Graham said.
He put his hand on the back of my son’s neck. Right where the hair used to be.
He left it there.
I watched it. A man who had nodded at me in a pickup line for eight years and looked away. With his hand on my son’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Something cold went through me. I didn’t know why yet.
The door of the office banged open.
Diane Quinn was standing there.
I’d seen her maybe twenty times in eight years. Always neat. Always polite. Blonde bob. Cardigan buttoned to the neck.
She wasn’t neat now. Her hair was pulled back in a rubber band. She was wearing sweatpants. Her phone was in her hand, and on the screen I could see the fundraiser page. Harper’s face. Wyatt’s ponytail.
