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The next morning, while we’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking our coffee and feeding two sleepy babies breakfast, I ask Ian, “Will you be okay if I go out for a while?”

Ian glances across the table at me. “You’re going to look for her, aren’t you?”

I nod. “I’m going to ask Jerry to keep an eye on things here at the house while I’m gone, just as a precaution. Until I have a better idea of what’s going on, I don’t want to leave you and the kids alone.”

Unprotected is what I really mean, but I don’t want to say that out loud. I don’t want to give Ian more reason to worry. I’ve seen no evidence that the blackmailer would resort to violence, but I can’t take that risk.

Ian manages a smile. “That’s a great idea.” He and Jerry Harshman, our handyman and office manager, have a special relationship that goes back several years. Ian befriended Jerry when he encountered the homeless man, a U.S. Army veteran, living on the streets of downtown Chicago. Ian would buy Jerry meals at a Mexican restaurant near Millennial Park.

Ian offered to get Jerry a spot in a local men’s shelter, but Jerry always refused to accept any housing assistance. When we opened the private investigation business, we hired Jerry to manage the renovation of the carriage house. He brought all of his formidable logistical skills from working in the U.S. Army to his new job, which included everything from keeping the facility running smoothly to ordering supplies.

Jerry lives on-site, in an apartment above the PI office. The guy knows how to handle himself, and I’m confident he can protect Ian from any threat.

After kissing Ian goodbye, I leave him to wrangle the kids while I head across the driveway to the office. When I walk inside, Kimi waves from the reception desk.

“Good morning, Mr. J.” She runs her fingers through her spikey hair, mussing the strands deliberately. “How’s Ian?”

“He’s okay. Anything new on the research front?”

She perks up, smiling. “Yes.” Kimi turns her computer monitor toward me, and I find myself looking at a dated mug shot. Even without being told, I know who this is. The resemblance between this woman and Ian is uncanny. They have the same curly light brown hair and the same green eyes.

“That’s her mug shot, obviously,” Kimi says. She switches to a new screen—Instagram—and scrolls through a few of Rhonda’s posts. “She lives in Roger’s Park and works as a server at Ambrose’s Diner. I’ll send you the address of the diner and a recent picture of her.”

“Thanks, Kimi. Is Jerry here?”

She points to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

I head toward the stairs. “I’m going to ask him to keep an eye on Ian while I’m gone. You need to keep an eye out as well, for anything or anyone unusual. Don’t hesitate to call 911 if you feel unsafe for any reason.”

“Will do,” she says, giving me a salute.

Jerry’s apartment takes up half of the second floor of the carriage house. I knock on his door, and it opens almost immediately, as if he heard me coming up the stairs. He’s got a half-eaten red apple in his hand.

He finishes chewing, swallows, and tosses the apple core into a trashcan. “Hello, Tyler. Come in.”

I step into a tidy and well-organized space. The apartment is nothing fancy. There’s an open floor plan, with a living room and kitchen, and down the hallway is a bedroom and a bathroom. The apartment is part of his compensation package.

“What can I do for you?” Jerry asks as he washes his hands and dries them. He grabs a bottle of water off the kitchen table and takes a swig.

Jerry Harshman is a formidable man. I’d put him at about six-two. There’s not an ounce of fat on his body. He’s in his late sixties and wears his gray hair in a military buzz cut. His tanned skin is weathered and wrinkled. His sharp, steely blue eyes miss nothing.

“I need to ask a favor, Jerry.”

He nods. “Happy to be of help, sir.”

I’ve told him a dozen times he doesn’t need to call me sir , but he insists. I think it’s the military in him. I withdraw the blackmail note from my jacket pocket and hand it to him.

His brow furrows as he scans the writing, his jaw tightening. “Any idea who sent this?”

“Not exactly, although I do have my suspicions. That’s where you come in. I need to track down my primary suspect, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving Ian at home without protection. Would you—”

“Of course.” He opens a closet door and pulls out a Glock tucked into a chest holster. He straps the holster on, and then he checks the gun to make sure it’s loaded. “Do you want me inside or outside of the townhouse?”

“Inside, if you don’t mind. I want someone there with Ian, just as a precaution. And I suspect Ian would appreciate your company.”

Jerry pulls a light tan jacket out of the closet and slips it on, effectively hiding the fact he’s carrying a handgun. “Understood.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with him until I return. I don’t want him left alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the things I appreciate most about Jerry is how efficient and reliable he is.

* * *

I leave the office and slide into the driver’s seat of my ten-year-old black BMW, which is parked beside Ian’s flashy new Porsche SUV. When we were expecting the babies, he traded in his bright blue Porsche 910 for the larger family-sized vehicle.

As I start the engine, I watch Jerry cross the driveway and disappear behind the townhouse.

Roger’s Park is a quick fifteen-minute drive. At this time of day, there’s not much traffic to contend with. My first stop is at the diner where Rhonda Mitchell reportedly works. I just hope she’s working the first shift.

After finding parking on a side street, I walk into the diner and recognize her immediately. She’s a rather attractive woman, with curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing an apron over a black pencil skirt and a white blouse and currently taking a couple’s food order. She looks vastly different from the woman I saw in a mug shot. The dark shadows beneath her eyes are gone, as are the splotches on her cheeks—clear signs of drug use.

When she spots me, she gives me a welcoming smile and says, “Seat yourself anywhere you like, hon. I’ll be right with you.”

I take a seat at the corner booth at the back of the restaurant, which gives me an unrestricted view of her. I pick up a laminated menu off the table and scan it. A few minutes later, she approaches my table holding a pot of coffee.

“Coffee?” she asks.

I nod as I gaze up at her nametag—Rhonda. Confirmation. “Please.”

The table is already set, so she turns the mug in front of me upright and fills it. “Do you know what you want, or do you need time to look at the menu?”

“To be honest, I didn’t come here to eat.”

She gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say anything.

“Actually, I came here to see you.”

“Me?” She frowns, her brow wrinkling. “Whatever for?”

“You’re Rhonda Mitchell?”

She nods. “Who wants to know?”

I pull my ID out of my jacket pocket and show her. “Tyler Jamison, private investigator.”

Her frown deepens, and she seems honestly perplexed. “What do you want with me?”

“To start with, I need information. You gave birth to a son, Ian, 30 years ago. Is that correct?”

Her expression falls. “What’s this about? Is Ian okay?”

“He’s fine.”

She releases a sigh, looking clearly relieved. “I haven’t seen him, or heard from him, since I lost custody.” Her frown returns. “What do you want with me? I served my time—ten years in state prison, and then five years of parole. I’ve been clean ever since I got locked up and started a rehab program. I don’t do drugs anymore. I don’t even drink. I work an honest job, and I have a good life. I don’t want any trouble.”

“As I said, I’m simply looking for information.”

Her green eyes tear up. “Is he happy? Please tell me he is. That’s all I want for him—to be happy.”

“He is. He’s married now and has two kids.”

Her expression transforms instantly, that frown replaced by a look of pure joy. “He has kids?” She wipes her cheeks. “I guess that makes me a grandma, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.” I’m pretty sure Rhonda Mitchell isn’t our suspect. “Would you do me a favor?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, if I can.”

I take my notepad and pen out of my inside jacket pocket and lay them on the table. “Please write something on the pad.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, please. You can write anything.”

She picks up the pad of paper and pen and writes something quick. I glance down to see her signature. She has a light hand, her letters fluid and curving. It’s a very feminine signature. Rhonda Mitchell did not write that blackmail note.

Taking a chance, I withdraw the blackmail note from my jacket pocket and hand it to her.

She opens the sheet, and as she skims it, her eyes widen. The blood drains from her face as she drops into the seat across from mine.

“Where did this—I didn’t write it,” she says, meeting my gaze head on. “Is this why you’re here? Oh, my God, does Ian think I sent this to him?” She shakes her head and presses her right hand over her heart. “I swear to God, I didn’t. I would never do something like this. I did hurt him years ago, yes, but I’m a different person now. I would never hurt a hair on his head.” She hastily refolds the note and hands it back to me.

“Did you recognize the handwriting?” I ask. I watch the myriad emotions flitting across her face, ranging from confusion to sadness to finally anger.

She looks away, staring out a window at the street.

“Rhonda, who wrote the letter?”

Her attention snaps back to me. “You said you’re a private investigator. Did Ian hire you? Does he think I’m the one trying to blackmail him?”

“No, he didn’t hire me. I’m his husband.”

For a moment, she’s speechless. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I brace myself, because if she reacts badly, it’ll only add to Ian’s pain.

“My son is gay?” she finally asks.

“He is. Do you have a problem with that?”

She looks confused for a moment, but then she shakes her head. “No, I don’t have a problem with it. I just want him to be happy. Earlier you said he has kids.”

“Yes. We have newborn twins, a girl and a boy.”

Her lips curve into a smile. “Twins? I’ll bet he’s a good daddy. He always was such a gentle soul.” Her demeanor cracks then as fresh tears start falling. “Excuse me.”

Rhonda jumps up from the table and runs to the restroom, leaving me sitting here wondering who sent that letter to Ian if she didn’t do it.

I believe her. But whoever wrote the letter has access to Rhonda’s personal belongings, namely the photographs.

I drink my coffee as I wait for her to reappear. I’m not going anywhere until I get answers.

* * *

When Rhonda finally emerges from the bathroom, she’s composed, although her eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red. She’s definitely been crying.

She returns to my table. “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work.”

I lay cash for my cup of coffee on the table and stand. “Rhonda, who wrote the letter?”

“My boyfriend, Gary. That’s his handwriting. I’m sure of it.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Sharp. Gary Sharp. We’ve been together about six months. He recently moved in with me.”

“And he knows about Ian?”

She nods. “I told him about my history, my time in prison. I wanted to be transparent, you know?”

“I presume he knows Ian’s wealthy.”

Now Rhonda looks guilty. “He does. I’ve been keeping track of Ian through new articles. I’ve read about the things he’s done for the city, the money he’s donated.”

“Do you have photos of Ian from back then?”

She nods. “I have an album of pictures of Ian and me, from when he was born up until I lost custody.” Her voice breaks. “That’s all I have left of my son—photographs and memories. I doubt Ian has any good memories of me, of our lives together, but I do. It wasn’t always bad.”

“And I suppose Gary has seen these photos?”

“Yes.”

“Rhonda!” She jumps when a male voice calls to her from the kitchen. “Customers are waiting.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to get back,” she says, smiling apologetically as she backs away.

“Of course. Where’s Gary right now?”

“Probably at home. He’s between jobs, has been for a while. He usually sits home and watches TV.” She rattles off the address. “I assume you’re going to pay him a visit.” When I nod, she adds, “Do me a favor—when you see him, tell him to pack his stuff and get the hell out of my apartment. I want him gone by the time I get off work this evening.”

I take out my wallet, withdraw a business card, and hand it to her. “Here’s my contact info. If you need me, reach out.”

She scans the card before tucking it into her apron pocket. “Thanks. If you would, please tell Ian—” She winces. “Never mind. I doubt he wants to hear anything from me.”

“Rhonda—”

“No, it’s okay.” She looks resigned. “I understand. I lost my right to be part of his life a long time ago. Just—if you tell him anything about me, please tell him I wish the very best for him, and for you and your kids. I just want him to be happy.” She pulls her order pad from her apron pocket, jots something down, tears off the top sheet, and hands it to me.

As she walks away, I glance down at the note to see her name and phone number.