My CIA father called at 3 a.m. “Are you home?” “Yes, sleeping. What’s wrong?” “Lock every door. Turn off all lights. Take your son to the guest room. Now.” “You’re scaring me—” “Do it! Don’t let your wife know anything!” I grabbed my son and ran downstairs. Through the guest room window, I saw something horrifying…
The first thing I noticed was the way my father said my name.
Not “Max.” Not “son.”
Just: “Fitzpatrick.”
It was 3:00 a.m., and the ring of my phone sounded like a fire alarm in the dark.
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