Logan peered out the car window at the long, wooded drive. Then he lifted the sheet of paper
and double-checked the address. He didn’t need to check it. He’d already memorized the entire
note. Easy enough—there were only ten words on it, including the address.
The first contact he’d ever had with his father, and this was all he got. Ten words.
Jeremy Danvers, 13876 Wilton Grove Lane, Bear Valley, New York.
The note had arrived on Logan’s eighteenth birthday, couriered to his college dorm room.
He’d thought it was from his mother, probably a birthday check tucked inside a generic “for my
son” card. He didn’t mind the check—he always needed money—and it was better than the
equally generic gifts she bought when she made the effort.
Logan used to swear his mother bought gifts for her children using the buying guides that
appeared in magazines every Christmas, that she’d just go to the appropriate age group, and pick
the first item on the list. She wasn’t being lazy. The truth was that Susanna Jonsen didn’t know
her children well enough to know what they’d like. She wasn’t a bad parent, not abusive or
neglectful. Some women just aren’t cut out to be mothers, and unfortunately it had taken
Susanna three kids to realize she was one of them.
Logan considered himself the luckiest of the three. When he was two, his mother had met
his stepfather, who hadn’t wanted to take custody of a bastard of questionable parentage, so
Logan had gone to live with his maternal grandparents, and grew up, if not with much money,
with the kind of love and stability his mother couldn’t offer.
If not particularly personal, his mother’s birthday checks were always generous, usually a
couple hundred dollars. As soon as the envelope arrived, Logan had started planning how he’d
spend the money. He needed new school supplies, groceries, clothes, all those boring necessities
that, sadly, one couldn’t live without. But he was definitely putting some aside for fun, maybe
taking his buddies out for pizza and beer.
He’d opened t