“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said, coming toward me quickly. “Thank you for coming in.”
He led me past the tellers and into a glass-walled office at the back. Closed the door behind us. Sat down, then stood again, then sat once more as if he couldn’t decide which posture best suited bad news.
“Jason,” I said gently, because I had spent thirty-two years teaching middle school and knew a frightened young man when I saw one. “You may as well tell me.”
He nodded, swallowed, and opened a folder.
“A man came in last week claiming to be your son. Daniel Whitmore.”
The words landed softly, but the effect was immediate. I felt something inside me sharpen.
Daniel.
My son.
It had been three weeks since I’d last heard his voice, though even that conversation had been less speaking than maneuvering. He had always called when he wanted something, and in recent years his wants had grown more polished, more carefully worded, but never less hungry.
