My mother suddenly looks bitterly, tragically sad. “Don’t become a cop, Beckett. This job will break your heart over and over, until there’s nothing left.”

But I don’t think her job is the only thing that’s broken my mother’s heart.

“Are you going to ask for a DNA sample from Amira?”

She sighs as she lifts her glass again. “I don’t think there’s any need for that unless Penn’s test comes back positive. Maybe not even then. If we have proof that he’s the father, I can’t imagine Amira will deny that she’s the mother.” My mom’s shrug feels a little hysterical. “Unless you think there’s a third girl your brother could have gotten pregnant.”

“I don’t think he got anyone pregnant. It’s not his baby, Mom. We don’t even know for sure that it’s his shirt, do we? Has he identified it?”

“No, it’s still in evidence. But it’s ripped in the left armpit, just like he says his was. And it was found in Jake’s bag. Which Jake says he left here, right?” She drains her glass. “I mean, that’s still all circumstantial. As a cop, I know that. But as a mother …” Another shrug, as she sets her empty glass down. “It’s hard not to fear the worst.”

“What are these, anyway?” I hold up the bundle of letters, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh my god, I haven’t seen those in years.” My mother grabs the bundle from me and flips through them without taking the rubber band off. “These are the letters your dad and I wrote to each other during his first deployment, after I got out of the army. You were just a baby.”

“What was wrong with email?”

She shrugs as she stares at the top envelope. “Our connection was dial-up back then. Super slow. I hardly ever went online. Besides, you can’t carry an email around in your pocket and reread it.” I laugh, and she rolls her eyes. “Okay, you can now that we all have smartphones. But back then, we had these. Your dad said he always carried my latest one with him.”

“You two were literally too cute for words.” Though the envelopes in her lap seem to argue otherwise.

While she pulls one of the letters out of its envelope, I pick up a box of pictures and thumb through shots of my father and a bunch of other men in uniform. I recognize some of them. Others, I don’t think I’ve ever met. But in all the pictures, my father is smiling. He looks strong. Healthy. He looks like the father I want to remember.