“I am not a historical mystery.”
Owen sat at her kitchen table with the solemn expression of a detective being reprimanded by a witness.
“I know.”
“You searched school archives.”
“Ms. Delgado helped.”
“That doesn’t improve matters.”
“She has keys.”
Mrs. Parker tried not to smile.
It almost worked.
I had gone along because I thought adult supervision might keep Owen from asking questions like, “What secret were you hiding in 2002?”
It did not.
“Why didn’t you hear the ending?” he asked.
Mrs. Parker sighed.
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“I was.”
“Thomas was there.”
“Yes.”
“You talked.”
“Briefly.”
“What happened?”
Mrs. Parker looked toward me.
I shrugged apologetically.
“This is your fault,” she said.
“How?”
“You raised him.”
Fair point.
She turned back to Owen.
“The concert had already started when Thomas arrived. I saw him from backstage. I hadn’t seen him in decades.”
“Were you happy?”
“I was shocked.”
