The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

voice, which is husky, throaty, stalls out for a sec. Then she braids her fingers together even more tightly, swallows. “Big house – very modern, glass windows . . . the pool’s indoors, heated. They have a tiki bar . . . do you remember any of this?”

      Not even the tiki bar. “No. Sorry. I got nothing.”

      Her face shuffles through a boatload of emotions in, like, seconds – there and gone. Then her features smooth, totally composed. She looks dead on at me, blue eyes crystal clear, focused, narrowing, like she’s aiming a gun. “You don’t have ‘nothing.’ You have a son.”