Chapter 41: The Folder

Byron put his coat on over his shirtsleeves, and I took mine off the peg.

"Stay with the kids," he said.

"Not a chance."

"Lacey."

"You walked into that Marysville parking lot alone, and you came back with a recording." I zipped the coat. "This one I'm in on from the start."

Tara had come to the kitchen doorway with Poppy on her hip, and she looked at the phone in Byron's hand.

"Is that him?" she said.

"Yes."

"Is he armed?"

"He's holding his hands up in a dark driveway," said Byron. "He's a lot of things, but he isn't armed."

"Then keep Cal out of it," said Tara. "I'll sit on him if I have to."

We went out the back door and down the long gravel drive, with the flashlight beam bouncing ahead of us.

The air smelled of cold leaves and woodsmoke.

At the end of the drive the silver sedan was parked crooked across the ditch, with its parking lights on.

Brady hadn't moved.

His hands were still in the air, shoulder high, and they shook.

"You can put them down," I said.

"I wasn't sure." He lowered them slowly. "Byron. Lace."

He had shaved, and cut his hair, and put on the dark suit he had worn to the courtroom.

It hung off his shoulders now.

He had dressed up, I realized, to give this to us.

"This is everything," he said.

He touched the folder on the hood but didn't pick it up.

"Open it," said Byron.

"You open it. Please. I want you to see me watch you do it."

Byron held the flashlight, and I flipped the cover.

On top lay a typed page, two paragraphs long.

It said that in August sixteen years ago, Brady Raymond Angell had signed the name Byron Angell to a Waiver and Release of Parental Claim.

It said Eleanor Angell had typed the page and guided his hand.

Brady had signed it at the bottom.

The y in Brady hooked.

Under it was a second date and a witness line, and a stranger's name on a diner letterhead.

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