“I was at Owen’s school, Mark,” I said, my voice entirely flat, entirely devoid of emotion as I walked toward him.
Mark’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting to the ivory envelope clutched tightly in my hand. “Oh? Why? The term ended weeks ago.”
“His math teacher found something in her desk,” I said, stopping just three feet away from him. I held up the paper, unfolding it so he could see the unmistakable handwriting of our son. “Owen left me a blueprint, Mark. He told me about Sarah. He told me about the second house. And he told me about the life insurance policy you took out on a thirteen-year-old boy thirty days before he ‘fell’ into a raging current.”
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Mark froze. The calculated, mourning-father mask he had worn so flawlessly for weeks completely dissolved, leaving behind the jagged, terrified features of a cornered criminal.
