“DON’T BELIEVE HER.”
I read them once.
Then twice.
Then again.
Her.
Only one woman had been with Frank during those six days overseas.
Claire.
I didn’t call her.
Two days later, I boarded a plane.
As far as Claire knew, I was still at home grieving.
By the time I reached Claire’s street, I had spent the entire flight telling myself there might be an innocent explanation. Maybe the ring had been engraved years ago and I had somehow never noticed. Maybe Frank had meant someone else. Maybe grief was making me suspicious of a woman who had just lost her father. I repeated those possibilities until the taxi stopped. Then I saw Frank’s belongings inside the house, and every comforting explanation began falling apart.
When the taxi stopped outside her house, I nearly told the driver to keep going.
Then I noticed movement behind the front window.
A boy, perhaps twelve years old, was inside.
