Of course, I’d said I knew where Addy was before, and look where that had gotten us.
My doubt reflected back at me in Clint and Deborah’s eyes while we sat outside sipping bad, fast-food coffee too late at night. The Spencer boys were playing on the slide, also too late at night, but no one at McDonald’s had objected. In fact, a teenager wearing their uniform sat on a shaggy-haired spring rider alongside his girlfriend.
“I don’t understand.” Deborah had the wide-eyed look characteristic of anxiety that’s exhausted but wired, afraid to stop moving lest things get worse.
I set the letters and envelope we’d found in Addy’s desk on the tiny plastic tabletop. “We assumed the Toby who wrote these letters was being fostered by Sylvia Maddox at the same time Addy was, that that’s how they knew
