I don’t know why that always surprises me on the rare occasion I run into someone I knew or someone from a family I knew. I have it in my mind somehow that my Shelton past was set in a blend of Appalachia and Hooterville. It wasn’t. Not really. The town was working class, and the bosses who managed the mill were working class—at least in spirit and lifestyle. Sure, we had some poor outliers, but not many. And besides, every time I stand in front of the mirror, I no longer see any evidence that I personally came from a Pacific Northwest backwater.

“You made your dad proud,” I say, indicating the firm’s name in gold letters on the glass door to his office.

Dan gives me a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Dad thought it was some big bait to get me to come back here, but this place has always been home.”

I hold my tongue about Shelton. I’m not ashamed I’m from here. Not really. I just like to keep it in the past. Way past.

“So you and your wife are looking to adopt,” he tells me as we get down to business.

He hasn’t read the news stories, at least not closely enough to get to my name.

“No,” I say. “I’m here on another matter.”

He takes off his glasses and studies my face. “What kind of a matter?”

“My wife died,” I say, “and, well, I don’t think I’m equipped to raise our daughter.”

The words I have aimed at him are a double-barrel load, and I know it. I let him process them for a minute.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know about your wife.”

I take a breath. I actually need one. A really big gulp of air. This is harder than I thought. My emotions are a whirlpool, and I’m hanging on the edge of something that I know is impossible to completely explain. Not to anyone who hasn’t been where I am right at the moment. I try anyway.

“Sophie was murdered over Memorial Day weekend. Up at the canal.” I watch him as the synapses of recognition finally fire. He drops his eyes from mine. He knows the case. Everyone in the region does. Linda London has received quite the uptick in her teetering career from her exploitation of my private family business.

“Wow,” he finally says. “That’s terrible. Saw something about that. I guess I really didn’t place that it was you, Adam. Really sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I appreciate it. Been rough. Rougher than anything I could have imagined. That’s why I’m here.”

He sets his glasses on the desk. “And why is that? How can I help you?”

“I don’t think I can raise my daughter by myself,” I repeat.