Damian's investigators worked fast.
Two days after I'd agreed to let him look into my mother, he called me into his study. The room was dim, the city lights casting long shadows across the floor. He sat behind his desk, laptop open, a stack of printed documents beside him.
"Close the door," he said.
I did. Then I sat across from him, my hands folded in my lap to keep them from shaking.
"Tell me."
He slid a photo across the desk. My mother, sitting outside a coffee shop with a man I didn't recognize. She looked thin, tired, but not broken. Not like the version of her who'd cried on that park bench.
"That was taken last week," Damian said. "The man is Robert Kline. Small-time dealer, two convictions. She's been meeting him every few days since she left rehab."
My stomach turned. "She
