The officer in front took off his hat.
And I knew him.
Gray at the temples now. Heavier than I remembered. A thick mustache he’d had since before I met him.
Ray Delgado.
My husband’s partner for nine years. The man who’d carried one corner of David’s casket. The man whose phone calls I hadn’t returned in almost three years.
He didn’t look at me. He looked at the stage. At Caleb.
And then he did something I didn’t understand at all.
He nodded at my son. Just once. Slow.
Like he was saying, go on.
Behind him, the doors opened again.
And this time, it wasn’t two officers.
To understand why I couldn’t move, why I just stood there with my chair on the floor behind me and my hand pressed to my mouth, you need to understand how we got there. How my son ended up alone on that stage. And how badly I’d let him down before he ever got there.
