I found out about the office building from a friend who still worked there. The building manager, a man named Clay Whitmore, played golf every Saturday at Cherokee Country Club. His regular partner was Grant Bellamy.
I couldn’t prove it. I had no way to prove any of it.
So I kept working at the diner. I picked up extra shifts. I sold things on Facebook Marketplace. And I watched Grant turn every problem he’d caused into evidence that I was a bad mother.
Part Three: The Locket
Children notice more than adults think.
One night in October, Nolan found me at the kitchen table surrounded by bills. Electric. Phone. A final notice from the water company. A letter from the school about a field trip I couldn’t afford.
He was supposed to be asleep. He stood in the doorway in his dinosaur pajamas, rubbing his eyes.
“Mom,” he said. “Are we in trouble?”
I turned the papers over as fast as I could. I made myself smile.
“No, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m just figuring out which bills to pay first.”
Nolan climbed up onto the chair beside me. He picked up one of the envelopes and turned it over very seriously, like he was studying a math problem.
“When I have too much homework,” he said, “I do the easiest one first. Then the hard ones don’t seem as big. Maybe you could do that with the bills.”
I couldn’t answer him. I just pulled him into my lap and held him.
He smelled like the strawberry shampoo my mother bought at the dollar store. He let me hold him longer than he usually does.
“I love you more than all the stars,” I whispered.
