"Ron," my father said. "Listen to us. We have something to tell you, and it's not going to be easy to hear."
He sat like a statue as I talked. He glanced down at the note, read it without seeming to understand it, then read it again. He handed it back to me.
He was trembling.
"He's --"
"Darryl is alive," I said. "Darryl is alive and being held prisoner on Treasure Island."
He stuffed his fist in his mouth and made a horrible groaning sound.
"We have a friend," my father said. "She writes for the Bay Guardian. An investigative reporter."
That's where I knew the name from. The free weekly Guardian often lost its reporters to bigger daily papers and the Internet, but Barbara Stratford had been there forever. I had a dim memory of having dinner with her when I was a kid.
"We're going there now," my mother said. "Will you come with us, Ron? Will you tell her Darryl's story?"
He put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. Dad tried to put his hand on his shoulders, but Mr Glover shook it off violently.