And then I saw it.
Heavy, cream-colored paper. Expensive stock, the kind government offices and law firms use when they want to project authority and seriousness. The return address wasn’t a friend or a utility company or a veteran’s organization.
It was the Portsmouth Family Court, Commonwealth of Virginia.
A chill that had nothing to do with the wind—there wasn’t any wind, the air was dead still—ran down my spine like ice water. My hands, steady enough to field-dress a gunshot wound under fire, suddenly felt clumsy and cold.
I stripped off my gardening gloves, my fingers feeling oddly disconnected from my brain, and tore the envelope open right there in the driveway, not even bothering to walk inside first.
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