His footsteps went down the porch steps. Slowly. Too slowly for an eighteen-year-old boy.
I didn’t think about that until later.
Wyatt slept in his old room that night. I didn’t sleep at all. At seven o’clock the next morning, I walked four houses down Juniper Lane in my coat and rang the Coles’ bell.
Dale answered.
Wyatt was right. He looked awful. Gray stubble, red eyes, the same sweater he’d had on at graduation. He saw my face and didn’t bother pretending.
“Holly.”
“You took my son’s toothbrush.”
He closed his eyes.
“You ran a DNA test on my child without my permission,” I said, “without his permission. You broke every promise you made to me and to Graham. And you booked him for surgery like he was a spare part.”
“Not surgery. An evaluation. Holly, please, if you’d just let me explain —”
“Explain the sticky note, Dale. Before Holly knows.”
