Instructions only.
For the first time since the funeral, doubt entered the room, written in my son’s handwriting.
I thanked Mrs. Dilmore and ran off. For a moment I was about to call Charlie. But the letter was clear.
Follow him.
So I went to his office and waited.
I texted him, “What do you want for dinner?”
He replied a few minutes later: “Meeting late. Don’t wait for me.”
I felt a knot in my stomach.
Twenty minutes later, he left and drove away. I followed him.
Nearly forty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the children’s hospital, the same one where Owen had been treated. He grabbed some boxes from the trunk and went inside.
I followed him in silence.
Through a narrow window, I watched him change into a flashy, ridiculous outfit: huge suspenders,
A plaid coat and a red clown nose.
Then he entered the pediatric ward.
The children started smiling even before I got there. He handed out toys, joked, and tripped over them on purpose to make them laugh.
A nurse smiled and called out, “Professor Giggles.”
I was paralyzed.
None of this corresponded to the suspicion that Owen’s letter had sown.
“Charlie,” I called softly.
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