“Someone came to my mother’s house and took a picture of the kid.” Deval leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and slowly lowered his face into his hands. “Your mother? Gloria Jones, that woman she was staying with a few months back?” “Gloria. Yes.” “A picture. That’s what started this whole thing?” He felt ill. The picture of Chloe was stuck to his fridge with a magnet.
Pieces are starting to come together.
