I wanted to believe Grant was lying.

After everything I had just seen, believing anything he said felt impossible.

Then my phone received an image.

It showed Miles and me entering the airport that morning.

The photograph had been taken from behind a row of parked cars.

Miles was pulling his blue suitcase.

I was checking our boarding passes.

A timestamp sat in the lower corner.

6:43 A.M.

Today's date.

Rachel covered her mouth.

“There was someone watching you.”

I enlarged the image.

At the far edge of the frame, reflected in an airport window, stood the outline of a man holding a camera.

I typed quickly.

Who took this?

Grant answered.

I don't know which one.

Which one?

My stomach turned.

I called the number.

He rejected the call.

I called again.

Rejected.

A message came instead.

No calls.

I typed back.

You owe me more than messages.

There was a long silence.

Then he wrote.

I know.

That simple answer made me angrier than anything else could have.

I walked into Rachel's kitchen because I didn't want Miles hearing me.

You let your son think you were dead for three years.

I watched him cry for you.

I watched him leave birthday cards in your desk because he thought maybe someday you would come home and read them.

Don't tell me you know.

The typing indicator remained on the screen for almost a full minute.

Finally, Grant answered.

I read every card.

I stopped breathing.

How?

No answer.

How did you read them?

Nothing.

I went into the guest room.

Miles was sitting on the bed with his backpack open.

He had taken out a small spiral notebook.

Grant had bought it for him before the fishing trip.

Miles still used it for sketches.

“Mom?”

I sat beside him.

“Did Dad text you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“I think so.”

Miles looked down at the notebook.

“Then we should help him.”

A sharp ache passed through my chest.

“He left us.”

Miles nodded.

“I know.”

“He had three years to come back.”

“I know.”

“He ran away from you today.”

Miles finally looked at me.

“But he warned us.”

There were moments when my ten-year-old sounded much older.

This was one of them.

My phone vibrated.

Grant had sent an address.

A public library in Providence.

Tomorrow.

10:00 A.M.

Come alone.

I typed one question.

Will you be there?

His response appeared.

If I'm not, leave immediately.

Then another message arrived.

Laura, there is something about me you need to know before you decide whether you ever want to see me again.

I stared at the words.

What?

His answer came slowly.

Grant Harper wasn't the name I was born with.