I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”
Dwight smiled wide.
He figured I was weak.
Brandi walked in at 1 a.m. reeking of cigarettes and perfume.
She spotted me sitting at the kitchen table and went stiff.
“Wade.
You’re home early.”
“Who’s Dwight?”
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