“That I need coffee.” Thomas swings into a Starbucks by the highway on-ramp and merges into the take-out line. “You want anything?”

“Large. Black. And something sweet.”

He orders two coffees, a couple croissants and muffins. They’re ready at the window when we pull up and he hands them to me then pays the girl. The rich smell of coffee fills the car. I wait until Thomas pulls onto Highway 84, west toward Portland, before I take a sip then share my croissant with Moose, who has already gobbled the morning bowl of food I put on the back seat. Chris delicately eats flaky pastry crumbs off my lap.

“Now you like croissants?” Thomas asks his cat with a smile that finally touches his eyes.

There’s a heavy inversion layer today and the low clouds cast the day as gray as my mood. The car’s thermometer reads forty-one degrees. Hopefully it’ll rain later. That will make the orchardists happy. I nibble on what’s left of the croissant but caffeine on an empty stomach has made me queasy.

After he’s downed his coffee and a muffin, Thomas says, “The first question I have is why did your mom keep that letter?”

I take off my boots then tuck my coat behind my back, cross my legs. “Maybe it was a memento of my childhood?”

“Those go in a scrapbook with photos of a first step, a letter to Santa, a lock of hair, painted handprints.”

“A lock of hair?”

“First haircut.”

“Weird.” Thomas shrugs. His mom must’ve done that. “Could be because it’s all Mom had to mark the day I arrived?”

Thomas taps his hands on the wheel. “You said Hana isn’t the sentimental type. Seems like that was more your dad’s role.”

I struggle to untangle the last twenty-four hours. A knot slowly teases free. “Mom knew I’d try to get Dad alone . . . convince him to tell me whatever he knew.” I stare at the letter. “She . . . she gave this to him . . . to give to me.”

Thomas switches lanes, glances at me. “Okay. But why?”

All at once, it’s crystal clear. “You saw how Hana cooks, methodically washes dishes, and scrubs the counters. Everything in its proper place, no mess left behind. That letter was important to her, once upon a time. But now that she’s done with me, she’s cleaning house.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Wow. That’s cold.”

He’s right, but his judgment pisses me off anyway. “I wouldn’t cast any stones, Theo. Tell me about your perfect mother.”

“She lives in Portland, in the Pearl neighborhood, same apartment where I grew up.”

Does Lucas know this? Is the private detective he hired already mining that vein? “Are you going to visit her while we’re here?”

“Probably not.” Thomas glances at me. His cheeks are ruddy. “Sorry about criticizing Hana. It’s just . . . I understand what it feels like to be judged by a parent.”

“So your mom isn’t proud of your career, either?”