Part 2
Denise recognized it immediately.
“It belongs to Caleb.”
Her face drained of color.
“He lost that two weeks ago.”
Harold stared at the object.
“Where did they find it?”
“Behind the pharmacy.”
Denise looked at Caleb.
The boy slowly shook his head.
“I didn't lose it there.”
Harold took a breath.
“Then someone had it.”
The officer frowned.
“You think the suspect planted it?”
Harold looked at him.
“I think you should find out where it came from before assuming anything.”
The officer nodded.
Harold had spent thirty years in federal investigations.
He had learned something early in his career.
The most dangerous mistakes were made when people decided what evidence meant before they knew where it came from.
That night, Denise couldn't sleep.
Caleb stayed in her bed.
Every few hours, he woke up crying.
At 2:17 in the morning, Denise's phone rang.
It was the detective assigned to the case.
“Ms. Walker, we found something.”
She sat upright.
“What?”
“The van was recovered three miles from the store.”
“Did you catch him?”
“No.”
Her heart sank.
“But we found something inside.”
“What?”
There was a pause.
“A photograph.”
Denise's fingers tightened around the phone.
“Of who?”
“Your son.”
She couldn't breathe.
“How?”
“We don't know yet.”
The detective continued.
“There are actually several photographs.”
Denise closed her eyes.
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
She felt sick.
“From where?”
“Some are from outside his school. One appears to be from your neighborhood. Another was taken near a playground.”
“Why?”
“We're trying to determine that.”
Denise looked at Caleb sleeping beside her.
Then she noticed something.
The detective had not mentioned the photograph taken that afternoon.
“Is there one from today?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“What does it show?”
“Your son standing outside the convenience store.”
Denise's blood ran cold.
“That photograph would have been taken before he met Miguel.”
“Yes.”
“Then someone was watching him.”
“We believe so.”
Denise whispered, “What about Harold?”
The detective hesitated.
“Mr. Sato?”
“Yes.”
“He came by the station earlier.”
“Why?”
“He brought us something.”
“What?”
“A notebook.”
Denise didn't understand.
“What kind of notebook?”
“He said it contained notes from this morning.”
Harold had been watching the school gate since shortly after sunrise.
He had not planned to become involved.
That was what he told himself.
He had been visiting his old friend Thomas Bell, a retired police officer who lived nearby.
On the way home, Harold had stopped near Caleb's school.
He had noticed the man then.
Miguel.
Not close to the children.
Not close enough to attract attention.
Just standing across the street beside a construction fence.
Harold had noticed him because of his shoes.
Red clay.
The school was surrounded by ordinary gray pavement.
There was no construction nearby.
No landscaping.
No reason for a stranger to have that kind of clay on his shoes.
Harold had watched him for eleven minutes.
At 8:42, Miguel walked away.
At 8:47, Caleb's class entered the building.
Harold had thought that was the end of it.
Then, that afternoon, he saw the same shoes outside the convenience store.
The same man.
The same careful distance.
Only this time, the man approached Caleb.
Harold had recognized the danger immediately.
He had not known what Miguel wanted.
He still didn't.
But he knew something was wrong.
The notebook contained everything Harold had observed.
Times.
Locations.
Descriptions.
Nothing emotional.
Nothing speculative.
Just facts.
The detective read every page.
At the bottom of one page, Harold had written:
“Question: How did he know the boy's name?”
The detective circled it.
“That’s the question we're trying to answer.”
Harold shook his head.
“No.”
The detective looked up.
“That isn't the question.”
“What is?”
Harold tapped the page.
“It's how long he's known it.”
The next morning, Denise took Caleb to stay with her sister.
She didn't want him near the house.
She didn't want him near the school.
She didn't even want him looking through the front window.
Everything suddenly felt exposed.
Every passing car made her nervous.
Every unfamiliar face made her heart race.
At 9:30, someone knocked on the door.
Denise froze.
Her sister looked through the curtain.
“It’s Harold.”
Denise opened the door but kept the chain attached.
Harold stood outside holding a paper cup of coffee.
“I thought you might need this.”
Denise almost smiled.
Almost.
“How did you find us?”
“You told the detective your sister's address.”
“Oh.”
Harold looked uncomfortable.
“I wanted to give you something.”
He handed her a folded sheet of paper.
It was a map.
Several locations had been marked.
The school.
The convenience store.
The playground.
Denise's home.
And one more place.
An abandoned brick warehouse on the edge of town.
“What is this?”
“I checked the clay on the suspect's shoes.”
“You can do that?”
“Not scientifically enough to prove anything. But visually, it resembles soil from this area.”
He pointed at the warehouse.
“The warehouse sits beside a drainage channel. After rain, the ground there turns reddish brown.”
Denise stared at the map.
“Why would he go there?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why show me?”
“Because I think someone should look.”
Denise immediately shook her head.
“No.”
Harold understood.
“Not you.”
He folded the map.
“I'll go.”
“That's dangerous.”
Harold smiled faintly.
“So is standing in a parking lot and getting slapped by a terrified mother.”
Despite herself, Denise laughed.
It was the first time she'd laughed since yesterday.
