A Slice of Blueberry Pie Broke Eight Years of My Son’s Silence

“Where’s the boy?” he asked.

“Up in his room,” I said, laying the paring knife down on the cutting board.

I dried my hands on a dish towel and looked him right in the eye.

“Zane, why did eighty-five thousand dollars get deposited into your personal account eight years ago?”

Zane froze with his hand on the refrigerator handle.

“What nonsense are you going on about?” he asked.

“I found the bank slip in the drawer of your workbench,” I said.