The first thing I saw was Owen’s backpack.
It was sitting on the administrator’s desk, unzipped, with a small blue folder beside it.
The second thing I saw was Owen himself.
He was sitting in a chair near the window, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
And the third thing I saw made my heart nearly stop.
A photograph.
Not just any photograph.
It was a picture of my daughter, Greta, taken when she was only a few hours old.
I knew that photograph.
I had taken it myself in the hospital.
And I had never given a copy to Owen.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
Owen lifted his head.
His eyes were red.
“Claire, please. Let me explain.”
I looked at Karen.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s perfectly safe,” Karen assured me. “She’s with her cabin counselor. She doesn’t know anything is wrong.”
I took a breath, but it did little to calm me.
“Then somebody had better tell me why I’m here.”
Karen pulled out a chair.
“Please sit down.”
“I’d rather stand.”
She nodded and turned toward Owen.
“Mr. Bennett arrived this morning with Greta. Everything about the check-in appeared normal. He was listed as an authorized adult, and Greta seemed comfortable with him.”
“Because he’s my friend,” I said.
“Yes. But shortly afterward, one of our counselors noticed something unusual.”
She reached for the blue folder.
“Owen returned to the office after Greta had gone to her cabin. He asked whether we could update her emergency contact information.”
I frowned.
“Update it how?”
Karen hesitated.
“He wanted to be listed as her father.”
The room went silent.
I looked at Owen.
“What?”
He stood.
“Claire—”
“Sit down,” I said.
He sat.
Karen continued.
“Our staff explained that we couldn’t change a child’s parent information without appropriate documentation and your authorization. Mr. Bennett became upset. Not aggressive, but visibly distressed.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
Karen glanced at the photograph.
“That’s what we hoped you could explain.”
I turned toward Owen.
He looked as though he had aged ten years since breakfast.
“Owen,” I said slowly, “tell me this is a misunderstanding.”
He stared at the floor.
“I wish it were.”
Something cold settled in my stomach.
For years, Owen had been the person I called when my car wouldn’t start, when Greta had a fever and I couldn’t leave work, when I needed someone to help carry groceries upstairs.
