“How often does that happen?”
“Not every day.”
“Does she remember afterward?”
“Sometimes she laughs.”
His eyes moved toward the kitchen.
“Sometimes she cries.”
That explained part of what I was seeing, but not all of it.
The preserved newspapers.
The unpaid envelopes.
The calendar stopped on October 14.
The secret room maintained with more attention than the rest of the house.
Twenty minutes later, a car pulled sharply against the curb.
Daniel Granger entered without knocking.
He was in his mid-thirties, still wearing work boots and a dark uniform shirt with his name stitched above the pocket. He looked first at Silas, checking him from head to toe, and then at me.
“What happened?”
“Silas is safe.”
Daniel crossed the room and put both hands on his son’s shoulders.
“You can’t leave school with someone without calling me.”
“I told the school.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“He followed the correct steps,” I said. “The office contacted the numbers on file. Your mother’s phone went unanswered, and you were listed as unavailable during work hours.”
