“Find out everything,” I told him.
“About Emily. About this last year. About those babies.”
“Even if I won’t like it,” I added.
“Give me three days.”
On the third day, at 6:40 p.m., my phone rang.
“Michael,” said Ray Dalton.
“You need to sit down.”
PART 2
Ray would not say it over the phone.
He asked me to meet him at a diner off I-75, in a booth under a faded pie poster.
The place smelled like fryer oil and burnt coffee.
He slid a banker’s box across the table and kept one hand flat on the lid.
“I’ll give it to you in order,” he said. “Don’t interrupt.”
I nodded.
“Eleven months ago, Emily was admitted to Tallow Memorial. Twins. Complications. The doctors put her on strict bed rest for seventy-one days.”
He tapped a sheet.
“Emergency contact: Michael Carter. Cell. Office. Home.”
“I never got a call,” I said.
