The photograph had been taken six months earlier.

My thoughts raced through dates, nights, appointments, and the medical procedure I believed had made fatherhood impossible.

“Find out where she lives,” I said.

Raymond didn’t move.

“I can send a note through the greenhouse organizers,” he replied.

“I’m not going to ask someone to give us her private address.”

His refusal irritated me, then brought me up short.

For years he had been paid to carry out my instructions.