Amelia had told him enough to understand that something new had surfaced, but not enough to burden him with details. That was her way: protect the client, pursue the truth, do not let fear do the work of facts.
Chloe climbed into the chair beside him.
“I made something,” she said.
She opened the notebook.
Inside were pages filled with drawings. A house. A tree. A little girl holding a kite. A man fishing. A woman with curly hair, labeled Mommy, with a yellow star over her head.
Gavin touched the edge of the page.
“I remember that kite,” he said softly.
“You fixed it with tape.”
“I fixed everything with tape back then.”
Chloe smiled. “Mommy said you used too much.”
“Your mom was usually right.”
At the mention of her mother, the room grew quieter.
Chloe’s mother, Rachel, had died two years after Gavin’s conviction. A heart condition no one had known was serious until it became fatal. Gavin had not been allowed to attend the funeral. He had received the news in a room with beige walls, sitting across from a chaplain whose kind voice made everything worse.
