Seven Yellow Folders Exposed What My Parents Had Done to Ethan

“He doesn’t play soccer, Richard,” I said.

“He reads at the public library.”

Richard didn’t miss a beat.

“The point is you don’t know him.

You don’t know his schedule, you don’t know his doctors, and you don’t know what he needs.”

“I know what’s written in Grandfather’s ledger,” I said.

Bradley stopped writing at once, his pen hanging two inches over the pad.

“Your grandfather was an old man whose memory was failing during his last eighteen months,” Bradley said smoothly, shutting his notepad with a soft snap.