Ryan.
Megan.
A little boy between them.
Maybe four years old.
Dark hair.
Blue jacket.
One small hand inside Ryan's.
The message beneath the picture glowed on my phone.
Before you destroy their lives, ask Ryan whose son this is.
Dawson stood beside me holding the folder of bank statements.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered:
“Is that Megan's child?”
I looked at him.
“You're asking me?”
His face tightened.
“I've been married to her for sixteen years.”
“I've been married to Ryan for eighteen.”
Neither sentence helped.
My mother was sleeping in the hospital room behind us.
Machines beeped quietly.
Nurses passed.
Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed.
The ordinary world continued while mine seemed determined to become more absurd every five minutes.
I enlarged the photograph.
The boy looked toward the camera.
I felt something strange.
Recognition.
Not because I knew him.
Because I knew the expression.
