Spencer’s attorney said, “Your Honor—”
“We’re done, counsel.”
Then Judge Harwood looked at me.
“Mrs. Fenton. For the record. On the day of the September hearing, your son said something to this court about his future.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’d like you to know that I have been doing this for nineteen years, and I knew what I was hearing. I simply couldn’t prove it. He proved it. From a hotel bathroom. With a tablet.”
She closed the file.
“Bring him home.”
Spencer did not bring him home.
For eleven days I slept with the phone on the pillow and the tablet’s little chime turned all the way up.
He sent a picture of a tram.
He sent a picture of a plate of custard tarts with a thumbs-up.
He sent, on the tenth night, a single line: Dad took the charger. I’m using the hotel one. Don’t worry.
On the twelfth day, Eli’s tablet went silent.
