Chapter 5
Jasmine refused to give us her address.
I didn't blame her.
Not anymore.
Every person Elijah trusted had eventually been used to find him.
So we met in a police station halfway between us.
When Jasmine walked into the room, I knew her immediately.
Not because I had seen her before.
Because the little girl beside her had Elijah's eyes.
Hope was eleven.
Tall.
Braids pulled into a ponytail.
Serious expression.
She held her mother's hand.
I couldn't speak.
My granddaughter stared at me.
Jasmine stopped several feet away.
“This is Claire.”
Hope looked at Marcus.
“And that's Marcus.”
Hope whispered, “Grandma and Grandpa?”
I cried.
Marcus turned away and wiped his face.
Jasmine watched us carefully.
Then Hope stepped closer.
“My dad has your picture.”
That broke me.
“What picture?”
“You're standing by a Christmas tree.”
I remembered it.
Elijah was five.
Marcus had taken the picture.
I was wearing a gold sweater.
Somehow Elijah had carried it through everything.
“Can I hug you?”
I asked.
Hope looked at Jasmine.
Jasmine nodded.
Hope came into my arms.
I held my granddaughter for the first time.
Eleven years late.
I felt her small hands around my waist.
Marcus joined us.
For a few seconds, none of us cared that detectives were watching.
Hope pulled back.
“My dad said you didn't know where he was.”
I nodded.
“He was right.”
“He said Grandma Susan lied.”
“Yes.”
Hope looked down.
“He hates her.”
“I understand.”
Jasmine sat.
She looked exhausted.
“Elijah came back three months ago.”
“From where?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“What did he look like?”
I hated asking.
“Older.”
She smiled sadly.
“Still handsome.”
Marcus laughed through tears.
“He always was.”
“He has a scar here.”
Jasmine touched her eyebrow.
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“He said New Horizons.”
I closed my eyes.
Another wound I hadn't protected him from.
“Was he healthy?”
“Mostly.”
“Did he stay?”
“For two nights.”
“What did he say?”
“He apologized.”
Jasmine's eyes filled.
“For leaving us.”
“Did you forgive him?”
“I understood why he did it.”
Marcus shook his head.
“He shouldn't have had to live like that.”
“No.”
Jasmine looked at him.
“But he did.”
She explained the man across the street.
Elijah had seen him before.
Years earlier.
At New Horizons.
“What was his name?”
“He called him Mr. Bell.”
Detective Harris searched.
Several Bells had worked at the center.
One matched Jasmine's description.
Franklin Bell.
Former security director.
Now sixty-two.
Still alive.
Living outside Richmond.
“What would a security director have to do with Susan?”
Marcus asked.
Harris ran another search.
Her expression changed.
“They knew each other.”
“How?”
“Church board.”
My stomach turned.
Of course.
Mom had built a network.
Family.
Church.
Agencies.
Everywhere Elijah went, someone knew someone.
“Bell helped her?”
Harris asked Jasmine.
“Elijah believed so.”
“Why would Bell follow him now?”
Jasmine looked at Hope.
Then at us.
“Because Elijah found something.”
My heart jumped.
“What?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Please.”
“He said he had proof that his grandmother paid people.”
“Records?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“Why not?”
“He said the less we knew, the safer we were.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“Did he say what he planned to do?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Give everything to police.”
Hope suddenly spoke.
“He said first he had to find one person.”
We all turned.
“Who?”
Hope looked at me.
“His mom.”
My chest cracked open.
“He was looking for me?”
Hope nodded.
“He said he was done running.”
I cried.
“He told me when he found you, he'd bring you here.”
Marcus stood.
“Then why didn't he?”
Jasmine answered.
“Because Bell appeared the next morning.”
“What happened?”
“Elijah saw him from the window.”
“Did Bell come inside?”
“No.”
“Elijah left through the back.”
My stomach dropped.
“He ran again.”
“He said he was drawing Bell away from us.”
“Did Bell follow?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven't heard from him?”
“One message.”
“When?”
“Two weeks later.”
“What did it say?”
Jasmine opened her phone.
She showed us.
HOPE DESERVES NORMAL. DON'T LOOK FOR ME. I LOVE YOU BOTH.
I read it twice.
“Did the number work afterward?”
“No.”
Harris asked to copy it.
Then she traced Bell's recent activity.
His bank account showed unusual cash withdrawals.
His phone records placed him in Tennessee around the date Jasmine described.
Then Richmond.
Then Maryland.
One destination caught Marcus's attention.
“Why Maryland?”
Harris frowned.
Bell's phone had connected repeatedly near a private assisted-living facility called Willow Crest.
I didn't understand.
“Who is there?”
Harris searched resident records.
Then she froze.
“What?”
I asked.
She turned the screen toward me.
A name.
Walter Crane.
The former director of Hopebridge.
He was eighty-four.
Living with advanced Parkinson's disease.
Marcus stood.
“We go now.”
This time Harris agreed.
Walter Crane looked fragile.
Thin.
Hands trembling.
But when Harris said Elijah Bennett's name, his eyes widened.
“You remember him?”
She asked.
Crane nodded.
His voice was weak.
“Susan's boy.”
My jaw clenched.
“He wasn't Susan's boy.”
Crane looked at me.
Recognition flickered.
“You're Claire.”
I stepped closer.
“What did my mother pay you to do?”
His eyes closed.
“Too much.”
Marcus's voice hardened.
“Answer her.”
Crane looked ashamed.
“Susan said you were unstable.”
“She lied.”
“I know.”
“You knew then?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“When the news stories kept coming.”
I nearly screamed.
“You watched us beg for our son and did nothing?”
Crane began crying.
“I had already committed crimes.”
“So you protected yourself.”
“Yes.”
At least he admitted it.
“Franklin Bell?”
Harris asked.
Crane looked frightened.
“He handled problems.”
“What problems?”
“Records.”
“Children?”
Crane hesitated.
Marcus stepped closer.
“My son.”
Crane swallowed.
“Yes.”
“What did Bell do to him?”
“Moved him.”
“Where?”
“Several places.”
“Why?”
“Because Susan paid.”
“How long?”
“Until she couldn't.”
My heart pounded.
“What do you mean?”
Crane's breathing became heavier.
“When Elijah got older, he fought back.”
I imagined my little boy becoming a teenager.
Learning that adults with authority couldn't be trusted.
“He stole files.”
“What files?”
“Payment records.”
Jasmine was right.
Proof.
“Where are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Bell thinks Elijah has them?”
“Yes.”
“Why does Bell care after all these years?”
Crane looked toward the door.
“Because the records aren't only about Elijah.”
Harris leaned closer.
“What else?”
“Other children.”
The room went still.
My stomach turned.
“What other children?”
“Susan wasn't the only parent who paid us.”
Marcus whispered, “My God.”
Hopebridge hadn't only hidden our son.
They had been hiding children for money.
Parents.
Relatives.
Custody disputes.
Abusers.
Anyone willing to pay.
Crane began shaking harder.
“Elijah found enough to expose all of it.”
“And Bell wants the files.”
“Yes.”
“Where is Elijah?”
Crane shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
“I don't.”
He closed his eyes.
“Last year he called me.”
My pulse jumped.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was going to finish what his grandmother started.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“He said Susan had finally told him one true thing.”
“What?”
Crane looked directly at me.
“That there was one place nobody in the family could touch.”
My mind raced.
One place.
Mom had always hated one person more than she hated Marcus.
My father.
Not Robert.
My biological father.
James Carter.
He and Mom divorced when I was four.
I hadn't seen him in twenty years.
Mom told me he wanted nothing to do with us.
I suddenly questioned that too.
“Did he mean James?”
Crane's eyes widened.
That was enough.
I called Vanessa.
“Where does Dad live?”
“What?”
“Our biological father.”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
She was silent.
Then she whispered, “Mom knew.”
Of course she did.
“Where?”
“She had an address.”
“Give it to me.”
An hour later, Harris found James Carter.
Alive.
Seventy-one.
Living outside Baltimore.
When he answered the door, he looked at me for three seconds.
Then he began crying.
“Claire?”
I couldn't move.
He reached for me.
Then stopped himself.
“Dad?”
He nodded.
Before I could ask anything, another voice came from inside the house.
A man's voice.
“Grandpa, who's there?”
Every part of me froze.
Footsteps approached.
A tall Black man appeared in the hallway.
Early twenties would have been impossible.
He was thirty now.
Short natural hair.
Scar above one eyebrow.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
The world disappeared.
His face changed.
He whispered one word.
“Mom?”
My knees gave out.
Marcus caught me.
Elijah stood ten feet away.
Alive.
Not a photograph.
Not a record.
Not a memory.
My son.
He took one step toward me.
Then stopped.
Fifteen years of pain stood between us.
I reached out.
“Elijah.”
He covered his mouth.
Marcus began crying.
Noah whispered, “That's my brother.”
Elijah looked at him.
Then at Hope.
Hope ran first.
“Dad!”
She threw herself into his arms.
He caught her.
Jasmine started sobbing.
And then Elijah looked back at me.
I didn't move.
I wouldn't force him.
I had failed him once.
I would not make his next choice for him.
He slowly set Hope down.
Then he walked toward me.
One step.
Two.
Three.
When he reached me, he didn't speak.
May you like
He collapsed into my arms.
And I held my son for the first time in fifteen years.
