Something hard was underneath.
Every instinct in my body changed at once.
I carefully lifted the edge.
Underneath was a tiny black disc.
Smooth.
Hard.
Barely larger than a grain of rice.
It looked like a tiny piece of black glass.
I had no idea what it was.
But I knew one thing.
It did not belong behind my child’s ear.
“Ethan.”
I forced myself to stay calm.
“Who put this here?”
His whole expression changed.
The bright, talkative boy standing in my kitchen disappeared.
“I don’t know.”
“Ethan. Look at me.”
He stared at the floor.
“Who put it there?”
His voice became tiny.
“Maybe the man from school.”
My blood went cold.
“What man?”
He still wouldn’t look at me.
“The one who knew Dad.”
Everything around me seemed to tilt.
Because Ethan’s father, Ryan, had been dead for three years.
Ryan died when Ethan was six.
