A Son's Tale

CAL FILLED HIS FATHER in on the details of Sammie Lowen’s safe return. He slept for almost twenty-four hours. And then, late Sunday afternoon, telling his father he was going to the grocery store, he took his shopping list and headed out.

But he made a stop first, at his fourth-floor office on the Wallace University campus.

Cal never showed up at school in shorts and sandals, but he wasn’t there to work. The halls were silent in the building he had to unlock with his master key, adding to his sense of a world out of sync.

He hit Recent Calls on his office phone without taking a seat and punched in the number as soon as it came up. Sunday afternoon, maybe the guy wouldn’t be available.

“Miller.”

“This is Caleb Whittier.”

“I recognized the number, Mr. Whittier. Thanks for getting back to me.”

Cal waited.

“I’m calling regarding a case you were involved with in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts, about twenty-five years ago.”

“I was seven years old twenty-five years ago.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Whittier. The case involves a missing person.”

Cal’s heart started to pound as something occurred to him—something that should have occurred to him from the very beginning. “Have you found Claire?”

There was a rumble on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittier, can you hold on a moment?”

The line clicked before Cal could give his affirmative answer. He had to know.

Somehow he’d worked it out in his mind that Emma would have contacted him if Claire had been found. She’d promised. They’d made a pact—before he and his father had become the bad guys: whoever heard first would tell the other before telling anyone else.

But then, she’d been four at the time.

A lot could happen in a quarter of a century.

Was Emma even alive?

Was Claire?

Was his father finally in the clear?

Or was he…

T

he thoughts raced so quickly Cal could hardly keep track of them. Or reel in the unwanted ones.

He’d made himself pretty hard to find. Maybe Emma had tried to contact him.

“Mr. Whittier? Sorry about that. Had a situation here.”

“Have you located Claire Sanderson?” Her body? Bones identified by dental records?

“No, sir, we have not. I called to inform you that a box of evidence from the Sanderson case has come up missing.”

“Missing?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Me? How could I possibly know anything about a box in police custody?”