My nine-year-old son had been getting his hair cut at the same barbershop for nearly two years.
Then one Saturday, a new barber stopped halfway through the haircut, stared behind Ethan’s ear, and quietly told me,
“Check that when you get home. Somewhere private.”
Ten minutes later, I found a tiny black object hidden against my son’s skin.
Twenty minutes after that, two police cars were parked outside my house.
And before the day was over, I learned that someone had been using my son’s grief over his dead father to set up something far worse than I could have imagined.
It began like any other Saturday morning.
Tony had been cutting Ethan’s hair since he was seven.
Ethan trusted him, which mattered because my son has never been quick to warm up to people.
We arrived a little before ten.
Tony was still working on another customer when Ethan dropped dramatically into a waiting chair.
