“Yes.”
“I am proud of you.”
His expression changed.
I quickly added, “You don’t have to do anything with that.”
He smiled.
Small.
Real.
“Okay.”
Then I asked the question that had kept me awake.
“Who gave the half-million dollars?”
Mason’s smile disappeared.
“That is complicated.”
“Your father said to ask you.”
“Dad talks too much.”
“He kept your nonprofit secret for six years.”
“Then he talks the correct amount.”
I folded my arms.
“Mason.”
He stood.
“Come upstairs.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many follow-up questions.”
“Genetic.”
“Probably.”
He led me to his bedroom.
I hadn’t entered without knocking in years.
His room was orderly.
Books arranged by subject.
Train maps on one wall.
Three computer monitors on his desk.
A small model of Miller’s Diner sat beside the window.
Mason sat at his computer.
He opened a folder.
Then a video.
A man’s face appeared.
