My Son Struck Me Thirty Times at His Birthday Dinner. The Next Morning, I Sold the Mansion He Thought He Owned.
Not police.
Not neighbors.
I stopped twenty yards away.
The passenger door opened and a man stepped out in a charcoal coat, no tie, polished shoes.
He looked about forty-five, clean-shaven, with the relaxed posture of someone used to making other people nervous.
He lifted one hand in greeting.
My phone rang.
The same unknown number.