Lily drew a house with
three doors.
Owen drew Captain standing on a boat under a very large cloud.
I watched his hand move across the paper, dark crayon pressing too hard near the sky.
“Is the boat sinking?” I asked gently.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Who’s driving it?”
“Captain.”
“Where is it going?”
Owen added a small shape on the horizon. “Somewhere with pancakes.”
Lily leaned over. “And a mommy?”
Owen froze.
His crayon stopped.
Then he drew a tiny figure beside the boat, so faint it was almost invisible.
“Maybe,” he said.
That one word followed me for the rest of the day.
Maybe.
It lived in the elevator as Elise and I rode down from the agency office. It sat between us in the car. It stood behind my shoulder when I stared out at Chicago’s gray afternoon and watched people cross streets with umbrellas blooming above them.
Maybe Anna
was alive.
Maybe Evan had been afraid.
Maybe Claire had not simply abandoned the children out of selfishness.
Maybe there was a story underneath the story.
Elise waited until we were inside my office before speaking.
“We have to move carefully.”
I stood near the window. “That phrase is becoming irritating.”
“It’s also the only thing keeping this from turning into a legal disaster.”
“The children were told their mother was dead.”
“And now we have a photograph suggesting she was alive eight months ago. That does not tell us where she is, why she left, whether she was safe, whether she had legal custody issues, whether she contacted Evan, whether Claire was helping her or harming her—”
“Helping her?” I turned sharply.
Elise did not flinch. “I’m not defending Claire. I’m identifying possibilities.”
“She abandoned them.”
“Yes. And that is its own matter. But the photograph tells us Claire
and Anna were in the same place. It does not tell us why.”
I hated that she was right.
I hated every unanswered question because each one left Lily and Owen suspended over hope.
Elise set the sealed evidence packet on my desk. The flash drive had not yet been opened. Not by us. Not without proper handling. Evan’s note made it clear he wanted me to see it, but my desire to know was not more important than preserving whatever truth might be inside.
“I’ll petition for review under appropriate supervision,” Elise said. “If there’s anything relevant to custody or safety, it needs to be admissible.”
“And if it’s not about custody?”
Her expression tightened. “Then it may be about Evan’s death.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Rain tapped the windows.
Evan Bennett had known numbers told stories. He had hidden a message in his son’s stuffed
bear. He had written my name as if I were the harbor he hoped his children might reach.
I had spent years believing I owed him nothing more than respect for an honest man.
Now his children looked at me like a promise.
“Elise,” I said, “find Anna.”
“We are.”
“No. Make it the priority.”
“It already is.”
“Then make it more than that.”
She studied me. “You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Be angry in this room. Not in court. Not around the children. Not around Nathan. And especially not around Claire.”
“I don’t plan to see Claire.”
