A sharp sting in my chest. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my phone. I pulled up our marriage certificate, stiff as a board, and held it out.
The guard gave me a strange, almost pitying look. Then he shook his head.
I didn't want to make trouble for him. The moment he turned around, I slipped through the gate.
A row of low hedges ran along the perimeter wall. Through the iron fence, I could see into the gardens beyond.
I ran five hundred meters along the wall.
Then I stopped.
The familiar Maybach. The license plate with all those eights. On the garden lawn stood an enormous arch of pink and blue balloons.
The banner read: "Happy 3rd Birthday, Pete!"
Three years old.
Today.
If my baby had lived, he would have been three.
My head throbbed. The aftermath of losing my child had tormented me for three full years. One thousand and ninety-five days and nights.
During the ten-minute drive, I'd run through every possibility. Maybe he was dropping off a client. Maybe he was planning a surprise for me. Maybe he'd gotten into some kind of trouble and was trying to handle it before I found out.
David wouldn't lie to me.
He especially wouldn't lie to me on our baby's memorial day.