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Then a woman hurried in and pulled him back. “Mason, come here.”
She looked at me, then at the Polaroid in my hand.
“Oh God,” she said.
I stepped inside before she could stop me.
“My son,” I whispered. “That is my son.”
She stared at the picture like she knew it. “That’s my husband.”
I stepped inside before she could stop me.
“Where is he?”
“At work,” she said. “Lumber yard in Mill Creek.”
“My son is Daniel.”
She shut the door with trembling hands. “His name is Danny.”
Mason peered around her leg.
“No. It isn’t.”
Mason peered around her leg. He had Daniel’s smile in his face somewhere. Enough to hurt.
The woman swallowed hard. “My name is Kate.”
“I’m his mother.”
Her eyes filled immediately. “I started to think that.”
She sat me at the kitchen table. There were crayons, a lunch box, a half-finished spelling sheet. I kept staring at the lunch box because looking at her was too much.
I hated how much sense it made.
“Roy was my uncle,” she said. “He raised Danny. Said his father was an old friend from another county who dumped him and disappeared. Roy moved a lot when Danny was little. Kept him out of school for almost two years. Then enrolled him under a different first name with bad paperwork and a story about lost records. By then nobody connected anything.”
I hated how much sense it made.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked.
“I gave Earl the photo yesterday.”
“I found the photo three weeks ago after Roy died, but that was all at first. Just a photo, your first name, and an old address. Two days ago I found the clippings. Missing-child clippings. Yours.” Her voice shook. “I mailed a copy to the mayor that same day because he was sheriff then. I was going to call state police today if he didn’t answer. Then Earl called.”
“The man on the road.”
She nodded. “I gave Earl the photo yesterday. He used to work with Roy. He recognized you from the old posters the second he saw the picture. He said if he ever saw you on Route 9, he would put it in your hands. I thought he was chasing ghosts.”
I stood up so fast the chair hit the wall.
That settled it. No miracle. Just guilty people circling the edge of the same old wrong.
“He was waiting for me?”
“Not exactly. He sits out there some days. Helps stranded drivers for cash. This morning he called and said, ‘Kate, she’s here. Her tire blew and she’s here.'”
I stood up so fast the chair hit the wall.
Kate grabbed her keys. “I’m coming with you.”
When I found Daniel, he was stacking boards in the open yard.
“No,” I said. “Not for the first minute.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but she wrote down the address and said, “Bring him home. I’ll meet you there.”
The lumberyard was 30 minutes away.
When I found Daniel, he was stacking boards in the open yard. Late 20s. Broad shoulders. Sawdust on his sleeves. A little stiffness in the way he bent.
He turned and he saw me looking.
Then I saw a grown man looking at a stranger.
For one second, I saw my little boy.
Then I saw a grown man looking at a stranger.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Daniel,” I said.
He frowned. “No. Danny.”