Part One
I first met Ethan in autumn. The property on which his house was set, I remember well, was littered with oak trees and his front yard was positively ablaze with reds, yellows and oranges on that first day I drove my Toyota up his front drive. The spectrum of color was simply dazzling in its array. Cruel winters in the northeast are certainly compensated for by a spectacularly beautiful fall.
On that day, it was Ethan’s mother, Emily Morris, who met me at the front door. She had been anticipating my arrival and was keen to go out shopping – for Thanksgiving supplies, she had said – while I sat with her son. We had gotten to know each other a bit by phone; I had a precompiled list of questions about her son’s case history and she inquired about my skill set and qualifications.
“Good afternoon,” she said, displaying a kind smile and producing her small, pale hand in greeting. Her hair, which caught the light of the midday sun, was absolutely dyed and not its once natural red, but this didn’t betray her age, which I guessed to be about 70. There were other signs, like worry lines around the eyes and the tiredness that dwelled there that told me that, although she was unmistakably trim and fit for her age, she had been through quite an ordeal.