The house was completely silent now, save for the faint creaking of the floorboards downstairs.

I listened intently, hearing Richard’s slow footsteps in the kitchen below.

He was cleaning up, moving the mug, turning off the television.

I took the folded paper out of my pocket and smoothed it flat on my lap.

It wasn’t just an address; there was a phone number written in hasty, shaky handwriting.

Beside the number, Rose had written three words: *Ask about Harrison.*

The name of the dead lawyer Richard had just mentioned.

My heart began to beat in my throat as the pieces started to twist in my mind.

Richard had said Harrison died ten years ago, but Rose’s note was written on fresh, modern notepad paper.

She knew the name.

If Harrison was just a regular adoption lawyer, why would Rose tell me to ask about him?

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed.

I rushed to the window and parted the sheer curtains.

Richard was walking down the driveway, wearing his heavy wool coat, heading toward his car.

He got in, started the engine, and backed out onto the street.