Page 5

It’s a short drive to Rhonda’s apartment complex. The place is obviously run down. There’s graffiti sprayed on the trash dumpsters in the parking lot. A few broken-down vehicles are parked out front. The lawn is more weed than grass, and the shrubs haven’t been trimmed in ages.

I enter a large brick building and take the stairs up two flights. I locate Rhonda’s unit down the hallway to the left. There’s a Welcome sign on her door, as well as a No Soliciting sticker. I hear a TV game show playing inside.

I knock, but there’s no answer.

When I knock a second time, a male voice inside yells, “Can’t you read? We’re not interested!”

I wait a moment, mentally rolling my eyes, and then I knock for a third time, more forcefully this time. The third time is the charm. If he doesn’t open the door—

“Hold your damn horses!”

The door opens, and I’m hit with a strong waft of marijuana. I stare hard at the man standing before me—a dishwater blond who hasn’t shaved for a few days. He’s wearing a pair of jean cut-offs and a ragged T-shirt bearing the NASCAR logo. He’s barefoot.

He narrows his blue eyes on me. “What the hell do you want? Can’t you see the sticker?”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Then what do you want? I already gave at the office.” And then he chuckles.

The irony is not lost on me. He’s jobless. “Are you Gary Sharp?”

His eyes narrow. “Who wants to know?”

I flash him my ID. “Tyler Jamison, private investigator.” It’s times like this I wish I still had my Chicago homicide detective badge.

Fear flashes in his eyes, and then it’s gone. “What the hell do you want?”

“Can I come in? We need to talk.”

“Fine, but make it quick. I’m busy.” He opens the door wider, takes a step back, and waves me inside. Once I’m across the threshold, he closes the door. “What’s this about?” His tone is more cautious now, not quite so flippant.

I figure the best approach is a direct one. “It’s about the blackmail letter you sent Ian Alexander.”

Gary freezes. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t waste my time, Gary. I just spoke with Rhonda. By the way, she asked me to give you a message: She wants you out of the apartment before she gets home from work this evening.”

Gary shakes his head as he takes a few steps back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I pull the note from my pocket, open it, and hold it up for him to see. “Does this ring a bell? Or do you need a refresher?”

He attempts to swipe it from my grip, but I’m ready for that. I fold it back up and return it to my jacket pocket.

“Get out,” he says, reaching for the door knob.

He moves to open it, but I grab him by his shirt collar slam him up against the door. “I could call the police and tell them to bring you up on extortion charges, or—” I twist the front of his shirt, pulling it tight across his throat. “I could take matters into my own hands.”

The fear is back in his eyes. Obviously, he’s a bully, an opportunist. But as soon as he comes up against someone stronger, someone who fights back, he cowers.

“Look, man, there’s been some mistake,” he says, his voice betraying his unease. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t do nothing.”

I happen to glance over at the sofa where he’d been sitting. There’s an open bottle of beer on the coffee table and a bag of potato chips. Next to the chips is an old photo album.

My stomach knots.

After I release Gary, I cross the room and pick up the album. Even though I know what I’m going to see before I even open it, I’m not prepared for the faded color photos of a toddler with curly brown hair and big green eyes.

Ian.

My Ian, so small and helpless.

My heart thuds painfully as I flip through the pages. The images progress chronologically, from birth to about four years of age. He’s alone in most of the photos, usually sitting on the floor playing with toys. A couple of the images were taken outside at a park, pictures of Ian sitting in a toddler swing, or sitting at the top of a colorful plastic slide. There’s one of him sitting in a sandbox holding a little yellow toy shovel. Beside him is a plastic yellow bucket.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I see shadows beneath his eyes. He’s pale and gaunt, with hardly any muscle at all. There’s a wariness in his gaze as he stares at the camera.

And then I remember the stories he’s told me—about being locked in an upstairs bedroom for hours and hours on end while his mother was downstairs doing tricks for drug money. He’d sit alone in the dark, with little more than water and a box of cold cereal, and dream of Batman or Superman coming to his rescue.

My heart breaks for him all over again.

With the photo album tucked under one arm, I grab a fistful of Sharp’s T-shirt and slam him against the wall, hard. “If we hear another word from you, I promise you’ll regret it.”

“ We? ”

“I’m Ian’s husband. If you fuck with him, you fuck with me. You got that?”

“Husband? What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s my husband! What’s so hard to understand?”

Sharp ponders my words for a minute, and then his eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Right. Oh! So if you fuck with him, you fuck with me. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” That’s when he notices the photo album tucked under my arm. “What do you think you’re doing with that? It’s mine.”

“It’s not yours. It’s Rhonda’s, and it’s coming with me for safekeeping.”

As I head for the door, I remind him about what Rhonda said about wanting him out of her apartment. “I’d get out if I were you.”

* * *

Once I’m in my car, I drive a few blocks away before I pull over to park on a side street. The photo album is calling to me. I look through it again, this time more slowly, studying each image.

There’s one of Ian sitting cross-legged on the living floor playing with superhero figures. Another one of him playing with toy cars. His limbs are stick-thin, and he appears grossly underweight to me.

As I stare at these photos, my chest tightens until I’m having a difficult time breathing. I was about twenty years old when some of these later pictures were taken. I was almost out of college by that time and ready to begin my career as a police officer. And during that entire time, this sweet little boy was suffering.

All I can think is thank God Rhonda was forced to give up her parental rights and that the Alexanders were able to adopt him. They gave that little boy everything he needed to heal from his ordeal and grow into the amazing man he is today. Yes, he still carries those scars and wounds with him. I imagine he always will. But in spite of his dark early years, he was able to overcome the trauma and grow into the ray of sunshine he is today.

I pull out Rhonda’s note and send her a quick text message to let her know I spoke to Gary and I borrowed the photo album for safe keeping. I also tell her I told Gary to move out of the apartment.

I start my engine and pull out into traffic with one goal—I just want to go home and be with my little ray of sunshine. I want to hold him and kiss him and make up for every second of misery he endured.

On my drive home, I call Ruth so I can update her and Martin. I get her voicemail, which is not a surprise, so I leave her a detailed message. Then I head home to Ian. I don’t know if he’s ready to see these photos, but he deserves to know of their existence. They document a painful part of his life.