“You have Frank’s eyes,” he whispered.
My pulse quickened.
“How did you know him?”
He pushed his chair backward.
“What is your last name?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Please. I need to know.”
Emma leaned closer.
“We live near the old park.”
“Emma.”
She immediately shrank back.
“I’m sorry.”
Barry stood.
His eyes filled with an emotion I couldn’t identify—shock, grief, anger, perhaps all three.
“Frank would have been proud of you,” he told Emma.
Then he turned toward me.
“You raised her well.”
Before I could ask another question, he hurried out of the diner.
I followed him onto the sidewalk.
“Barry!”
But by the time I reached the corner, both he and Gypsy had disappeared.
I should have taken Emma home.
Instead, I continued to the shoe store.
I bought her a sturdy pair of waterproof boots using part of our grocery money.
