Chapter 2

The dry-dock smelled like diesel, rust, and wet rope. Hector kept watch by the chain-link gate while I climbed the catwalk to the old tool bay. Caleb's locker was dented and painted over three times, but my brass key turned like it had been waiting for me.

Inside was a canvas jacket, a spare set of work gloves, and a metal cash box.

My hands shook as I flipped the latch. On top lay a hospital bracelet, tiny and yellowed. The name was written in faded blue ink: MATEO D.

Under it was a photograph. A baby in a white onesie, maybe six months old, lying on a blanket. On the back, someone had written June 1992. The corner of a woman's arm was visible, a thin gold bracelet on her wrist. Beside the photo was a carbon copy of an intake slip from Bright Horizons Adoption Services, dated August 1992. The word "private" had been underlined twice. At the bottom, in Vivian's handwriting: "Delete from file."

I sat down on the catwalk. Rain dripped through a seam in the roof and hit my boot. Caleb had known. Maybe not everything, but enough. He had kept the bracelet, the photo, the paper. He had hidden them where only a mechanic's key could reach.

"That's what was waiting," I whispered to the empty bay. "He was waiting."

Heavy footsteps rang on the metal stairs. Doyle came up first, two company guards behind him. His face was blotchy with rage and fear.

"Step away from my son's locker," he said.

"Your son?" I held up the bracelet. "This says Mateo."

Doyle's mouth twitched. "Caleb was adopted. Privately. Legally enough for us."

"Adopted children don't have abduction case numbers. Adopted children don't have mothers searching for thirty years."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

I slipped the bracelet and photo into my coveralls. "I know you bought a baby. I know Vivian wanted the file deleted. I know you just followed me here to take the proof."

One guard stepped forward. Hector shouted from below, "Try it, Wade. Half the yard saw you drag a woman out of an arbitration room. You want the union and the sheriff on this dock?"

Doyle's jaw worked. He looked at the cash box, then at me. "You think this makes you powerful? Vivian will bury you. She'll bury that report. She'll bury Hector. And she'll take Micah."

"She already tried," I said. "Now I'm the one with the evidence."

I called the missing-child hotline from the catwalk, read the case number off the report, and told them I had a hospital bracelet with the name Mateo D. and a 1992 photograph. The woman on the line went quiet.

"Ma'am, stay exactly where you are," she said. "Do not let that evidence out of your possession."

Doyle was already backing down the stairs. I didn't feel triumphant. I felt like a woman standing on a dock while a storm came in.

But for the first time since Caleb died, I wasn't waiting for the Rourkes to decide my life. I had the truth in my pocket, and I was going to use it.