Reyes shrugs. “Because he was right. You were there.”
“He never told me . . . my dad, he never even told me. I had no idea.” My head feels thick with confusion. “Why didn’t they tell me?”
Reyes’s eyes narrow a little as they glance at the door. “Your dad doesn’t know. As far as the official report goes, it was an anonymous tipster who gave us what we needed to find you.”
My eyes widen, but I stay quiet because even though my first instinct is to assume Dad would go bad cop all over this place if he ever found out, I remember something he’s been telling me my whole life—he’s a dad first and a cop second. I was home—the how that went into that wouldn’t matter much to him.
“And as for why Torrin hasn’t told you or anyone that he was the one responsible for bringing you home, I think it’s because he doesn’t want the notoriety or the recognition or anything that comes with that. All he wanted was to find you. All he cared about was bringing you home.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. He found me. He didn’t just look for me. He didn’t just keep believing. He found me.
He failed better until he got it right.
Those ten years I thought I was so very alone, I really wasn’t. He was still there, looking. Searching. Finding. That tether might have stretched and pulled and neared its breaking point, but he never let go. He was with me then too.
“Listen,” Reyes says, “I didn’t tell you any of this at first because I knew you had enough coming at you. I wasn’t going to tell you at all because it doesn’t change anything about who he is and who you are.”
I wonder if this is the whole reason she asked to meet. Not so I could tell what was missing from my story but so she could tell hers. “Then why are you telling me now?”
“I thought you’d want to know.” She taps the table with her palm. “I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else was giving in to the statistics, he was looking for you. I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else said you were never coming home, he brought you back. He refused to believe you were gone—he just wouldn’t accept it. I thought you’d want to know because I sure as hell would.” She shakes her head, and for a moment, she’s not here in this room—she’s somewhere else, with someone else. “I’d want to know that a man was willing to give up everything for the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was in that house and the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was still alive inside. That kind of love, friendship, whatever you want to call it, is worth crossing lines for.”
I inhale, understanding. She’s rooting for the happy ending. She’s advocating the fairy tale. Seems strange coming from a tough police detective.
“Even if that person is a priest?” I glance at her.
She lifts her eyebrows and stands. She doesn’t blink when she answers. “Even if that person is the motherfucking pope.” When I wrestle with a smile, she raps on the table a few times before heading for the door. “There are thousands of priests in the world to spread good, do good, and be good . . . but there’s only one him.”
She’s almost out of the room when she stops, catching herself with a snap. “Oh, I left something for you at the front desk, so grab it before you leave. Some evidence that belonged to you that we collected at Jackson’s.” She looks at me with something meaningful in her eyes. “Something I thought you’d want a chance to finish.”
Ten Months Later
IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. I’m turning twenty-eight. It’s the first one I’ve celebrated in ten years. It feels a little like a rebirth.
That’s probably why I scheduled what I did for this morning.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, sweetie?” Mom’s sitting on the edge of my bed as I finish with my hair. I got it cut a little shorter, and I still haven’t gotten used to what to do with the different length.
“I’m ready.” I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, looking for that light in my eyes. It takes a while to find it, but at least I can now. When I leave the bathroom, I do a little spin before slipping into my shoes. “So? How do I look?”
“Beautiful. Just don’t rub up against anything or drink anything or eat anything.” Her eyes scan me, and she motions for me to do another twirl. I do. “White’s dangerous.”
“No, white’s appropriate for the situation.” I run my hands down the smooth fabric and focus on my breathing. I’m nervous, but I have an arsenal of tools at my disposal now for when that happens. Deep breathing, redirecting the negative energy into something positive, focusing on an anchor memory that grounds me. I do all three now.
“Why’s that?” Mom comes over to help me adjust a few things. Turns the pearl necklace so the clasp is hiding. Smooths the seam running down my side. Combs a stray hair back into place.
“Because everyone’s expecting me to wear black. White’s going to take them all by surprise.”