Chapter 3
By that afternoon, Hopebridge Family Services became the center of the investigation.
The agency had closed eight years earlier after losing state funding.
Most records had been transferred.
Some had disappeared.
Detective Harris requested everything connected to Eli Dawson.
Marcus and I barely moved from the dining table.
Noah sat nearby drawing.
Every few minutes he looked at us.
Then at the old photograph.
I wondered what this was doing to him.
He had woken up that morning as an only child.
Now he had a brother somewhere in the world.
A brother who had once worn his shirt.
At four o'clock, Harris called.
“I found his foster placement.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“A couple named Gerald and Monica Reeves.”
“Do they still live there?”
“Gerald died ten years ago.”
My hope collapsed.
“Monica?”
“Alive.”
Marcus grabbed his keys.
“Address.”
Harris stopped him.
“Marcus, let me contact her first.”
“No.”
“She may have information.”
“Exactly.”
“She also may be eighty years old and terrified if two strangers appear demanding answers.”
Marcus stared at the floor.
Then nodded reluctantly.
Harris called Monica Reeves.
Twenty minutes later, she called us back.
“Mrs. Reeves remembers him.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What did she say?”
“She called him Eli.”
“Was he okay?”
Harris paused.
“That depends on what you mean by okay.”
I closed my eyes.
“Tell me.”
“He was quiet. Extremely anxious. He slept with his shoes on.”
Marcus's face tightened.
“He expected to run.”
“Yes.”
“He talked about us?”
“Not at first.”
I held my breath.
“Later?”
“One night he told Monica his real name was Elijah.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“He remembered.”
“He remembered everything.”
Marcus turned away.
Harris continued.
“He said his grandmother had told him you didn't want him back.”
I started crying.
Of course she had.
Every betrayal seemed to contain another one.
“He believed me?”
“For a while.”
Harris softened her voice.
“But not forever.”
“What changed?”
“Monica said Elijah saw a newspaper article online about the anniversary of his disappearance.”
Marcus looked at me.
I remembered that article.
Five years missing.
We had given interviews.
Begged publicly for information.
I had said into a camera, “Elijah, if somehow you can see this, your mother and father have never stopped looking for you.”
He saw it.
He knew.
My knees nearly gave out.
“What did he do?”
“He showed Monica.”
“What did she do?”
“She called Hopebridge.”
Marcus swore.
“And Hopebridge called Susan?”
“That appears possible.”
I felt sick.
“Then what?”
“Two days later, a woman claiming to be Elijah's grandmother arrived with documentation.”
My voice trembled.
“What documentation?”
“Custody papers.”
“Fake?”
“Almost certainly.”
“And Monica gave him to her?”
“She believed the agency had approved it.”
Marcus hit the wall with the flat of his hand.
“Again.”
I jumped.
“Noah looked up.”
Marcus immediately lowered his voice.
“She took him again.”
I understood his fury.
Elijah had escaped.
He had discovered we wanted him.
He had finally found an adult who might help.
And my mother intercepted him.
Again.
“Where did she take him?”
Harris said, “Monica doesn't know.”
We spent the evening going through my mother's old papers.
Vanessa returned with another box.
This time Marcus searched it himself.
Bank statements.
Receipts.
Church programs.
Old calendars.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a name written repeatedly inside Mom's address book.
Doreen Cole.
No relation to anyone we knew.
Three addresses over fifteen years.
One phone number crossed out.
Another circled.
I called Harris.
She ran the name.
Doreen Cole had worked at Hopebridge.
My pulse quickened.
She had retired before the agency closed.
She was still alive.
Living ninety minutes away.
Harris contacted her.
Doreen agreed to meet the next morning.
Marcus insisted we go.
I insisted too.
Doreen opened her door before we knocked.
She was in her seventies.
Tall.
Gray hair.
Wary eyes.
She looked at us for several seconds.
Then at the photograph I carried.
Her face changed.
“You're Elijah's parents.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“You knew him?”
Doreen began crying.
That answer terrified me.
We sat in her living room.
I held Elijah's picture in my lap.
Doreen folded her hands.
“I wondered if this day would come.”
Marcus stared at her.
“Then start talking.”
She flinched.
I touched his arm.
“Please.”
He breathed slowly.
Doreen nodded.
“Your mother came to Hopebridge with documentation saying Elijah had been removed from your custody years earlier.”
“That was false.”
“I know that now.”
“Did you know it then?”
Doreen hesitated.
“I suspected something was wrong.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“And you still handed him over?”
“I didn't make that decision.”
“Who did?”
“The director.”
“Name.”
“Walter Crane.”
Harris wrote it down.
Doreen continued.
“Elijah didn't want to go.”
My chest tightened.
“He screamed.”
I closed my eyes.
“He said his grandmother was lying.”
Marcus's hand found mine.
“He begged us to call his father.”
A tear rolled down Doreen's cheek.
“I'll regret that day until I die.”
“Where did Mom take him?”
“To a residential youth program.”
“What program?”
“New Horizons.”
Harris looked up.
“I know that name.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“What was it?”
“A private behavioral center.”
I stared.
“My son wasn't sick.”
Doreen shook her head.
“Your mother claimed he was delusional.”
The room blurred.
“She said he had created imaginary parents because of trauma.”
Marcus stood.
“Imaginary?”
I grabbed his hand.
He stayed standing.
Doreen cried harder.
“She said any mention of Marcus and Claire Bennett was part of his disorder.”
The cruelty was beyond anything I could understand.
My son knew exactly who he was.
So my mother made his truth sound like sickness.
“How long was he there?”
“Almost two years.”
“Then?”
Doreen swallowed.
“He left.”
“Ran away?”
“No.”
She looked directly at me.
“He turned eighteen.”
My heart stopped.
That didn't make sense.
“He was only thirteen.”
Doreen shook her head.
“Your mother changed his birth records.”
Harris cursed quietly.
“She made him older?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So the center could discharge him without transferring custody back to the state.”
Marcus stared at her.
“And then what?”
“I don't know.”
Doreen looked ashamed.
“But he came to see me once.”
“When?”
“About twelve years ago.”
My heart pounded.
“What did he look like?”
“Older than his age.”
She smiled sadly.
“Still had those eyes.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me one question.”
I leaned forward.
“What?”
Doreen's voice cracked.
“He asked if I believed his mother had ever looked for him.”
I sobbed.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I had searched old news archives after he left.”
She looked at me.
“I showed him your interviews.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“What did he do?”
“He cried.”
I covered my face.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
Doreen continued.
“He knew you had never stopped looking.”
“Where did he go?”
“He said he was going home.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Then why didn't he come?”
Doreen shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Did he have money?”
“A little.”
“A car?”
“No.”
“Phone?”
“No.”
“What name was he using?”
“Eli Cole.”
Harris wrote it down.
We searched that name.
Several matches appeared.
Most wrong age.
Wrong race.
Wrong state.
Then one stood out.
An employment record from eleven years ago.
A warehouse in Atlanta.
Eli Cole.
Date of birth incorrect.
But close.
No Social Security number listed.
Cash payroll.
The address attached to the file belonged to a homeless shelter.
My heart pounded.
Atlanta.
The city Marcus and I had planned to move to before Elijah disappeared.
Maybe he remembered.
Maybe he was trying to find us.
Harris contacted the warehouse owner.
He remembered Eli.
“Worked hard,” he said through speakerphone.
“Quiet kid.”
“How long?”
“Maybe six months.”
“Why did he leave?”
“One day a woman came looking for him.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What woman?”
“Older Black lady. Well dressed.”
My mother.
I knew before he said anything else.
“She showed him something.”
“What?”
“A photograph, I think.”
“What happened?”
“They argued outside.”
“Then?”
“He quit that afternoon.”
“Did he leave with her?”
“No.”
Relief flashed through me.
“Where did he go?”
“Don't know.”
Then the man remembered something.
“He said he had to leave before she hurt his family.”
Marcus looked at me.
“What family?”
I whispered.
The owner answered.
“He had a girlfriend.”
My heart changed rhythm.
Elijah had grown up.
He had built a life.
“Name?”
“Jasmine.”
“Last name?”
“Don't remember.”
“Was she pregnant?”
The man paused.
“Actually…”
My hand flew to my chest.
“Yeah.”
Marcus stared at me.
Our son might have a child.
We might have a grandchild.
The investigation suddenly wasn't only about finding Elijah.
There could be another branch of our family we never knew existed.
Harris asked one final question.
“Did Eli ever mention where he planned to go?”
The owner thought.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“He said somewhere his grandmother would never look.”
My hope dipped.
That could mean anywhere.
Then the man added, “I remember because it sounded strange.”
“What?”
“He said he was going back to where it all started.”
Marcus and I looked at each other.
The lake.
I whispered it first.
“The lake house.”
Our family had sold that property thirteen years earlier.
We hadn't been back since.
But if Elijah wanted answers…
That was where he might have gone.
We drove there that afternoon.
The house belonged to another family now.
But the owner allowed us onto the property after Detective Harris explained.
I stood near the dock where search boats had once lined the water.
Marcus stood beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Noah, who had insisted on coming, pointed toward an old oak tree.
“What's that?”
Something had been carved into the bark.
Weather had softened it.
But the letters remained.
E.B.
Underneath them were smaller words.
MOM + DAD DIDN'T FORGET ME.
My legs gave out.
Marcus caught me.
Elijah had been there.
He had returned.
He had known the truth.
And beneath the carving was a date.
Eleven years ago.
Beside it, one more line.
I'M GOING TO FIND THEM.
Our son had come home looking for us.
Somehow, he still hadn't reached us.
May you like
Which meant something happened after he left that tree.
And I was terrified my mother had found him one final time.
