Anyone who knew my mother agreed on one thing:
Evelyn Mercer
would never simply walk away without telling somebody.
I went home immediately.
I spoke to the police repeatedly.
They asked questions, filed reports, and told us they were looking into it.
But there was no obvious evidence of a crime.
Mom was an adult.
And every possible lead seemed to disappear almost as soon as it appeared.
We considered hiring a private investigator.
We couldn’t afford one.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I made posters.
Hundreds of them.
I taped my mother’s photograph everywhere I could think of.
Supermarkets.
Bus stations.
Coffee shops.
Laundromats.
Restaurants.
All over campus.
I carried extra copies inside my bag in case I met someone who might recognize her.
Before every shift, I checked my phone hoping someone had finally called.
Nobody did.
For four months, there was nothing.
Then came that Friday night.
A couple was seated in
my section shortly after seven.
They looked wealthy.
Not flashy exactly, but comfortable in the effortless way some people are.
They told me they were celebrating their anniversary.
The woman was polite.
So was her husband.
Actually, they were kinder than many customers I dealt with.
But something about them seemed distracted.
