hand gripping the strap of his backpack.
He was seven years old.
He still slept with the hallway light on after scary movies.
He believed Tyler could land an airplane in a thunderstorm because, in Mason’s words, “Dad can probably see through clouds.”
And now three adults were standing over him with a photograph suggesting that everything he knew about his family might be wrong.
I moved first.
I crouched in front of Mason.
“Hey.”
His eyes found mine.
“Mom?”
I took both his hands.
“We’re going to step somewhere quiet.”
His lower lip moved slightly.
“Did Dad lie?”
Behind him, Tyler made a sound.
“Claire—”
I stood.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t need to.
“Not one word to him until I understand what is happening.”
Tyler stopped.
I had known my husband for eleven years.
I knew the face he made when he was angry.
I knew
