Chapter 2 - THE BOY IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“Yesterday.”
The word barely left Emily’s mouth before I felt every instinct in me snap back into place.
For one year, I had lived like a man walking through fog.
That single word burned through it.
“Emily,” I said carefully, “I need you to tell me exactly where you saw him.”
She glanced toward the street.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
Her fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Because they might see me.”
I lowered my voice.
“Who might see you?”
Emily shook her head.
“I don't know their names.”
“Then tell me what they look like.”
She looked frightened.
“Can we go somewhere warm first?”
The question brought me back to reality.
She was seven years old.
She was soaked through.
Her lips were turning pale.
And I was interrogating her like a witness on a battlefield.
I wrapped my coat more tightly around her.
“You're right. First, we get warm.”
I carried her across the street to a small diner still glowing beneath a red neon sign.
The moment we entered, warm air surrounded us.
Emily stopped near the door.
She looked at the booths.
Then at the food.
Then at me.
“Can I really have something?”
I nodded.
“Anything you want.”
She studied the menu for almost a minute.
Then she pointed.
“Soup.”
“That's all?”
“And toast.”
I smiled.
“Soup and toast.”
The waitress brought them quickly.
Emily held the bowl with both hands.
She ate slowly at first.
Then faster.
I had seen soldiers eat like that after long operations.
People who had learned that food might disappear if they didn't finish it quickly.
I looked away.
It hurt too much.
When she finished, I placed another bowl in front of her.
She stared at me.
“You don't have to save it.”
She shook her head.
“Someone else might need it.”
That sentence told me more about her life than any answer could.
I waited until she had eaten.
Then I placed the photograph on the table.
“Emily, is this my son?”
She nodded.
“Lucas.”
Hearing his name from her mouth nearly broke me.
“What was he wearing?”
“A blue coat.”
My heart jumped.
Lucas had disappeared wearing a blue winter coat.
“What else?”
“A red backpack.”
“That was his.”
“He didn't have it yesterday.”
“Where was he?”
Emily lowered her spoon.
“Behind a church.”
“Which church?”
“Saint Matthew's.”
I knew it.
A small church on the South Side, nearly two miles away.
“Was he alone?”
She shook her head.
“There was a woman.”
“What woman?”
“Pretty hair.”
I waited.
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
“Blonde?”
Emily nodded.
“What was she doing?”
“She was mad at him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did she hurt him?”
“No.”
Emily thought.
“She grabbed his arm.”
“Did Lucas say anything?”
“He said he wanted to go home.”
I closed my eyes.
Home.
That word had haunted me for a year.
“What did the woman say?”
Emily looked down.
“She said, ‘Your father can't find you.’”
My pulse stopped.
“How would she know who I am?”
Emily shrugged.
“She said your name.”
“What name?”
“Sebastian.”
I stared at her.
“Are you sure?”
Emily nodded.
“She said, ‘General Ross will never find you here.’”
The room seemed suddenly too warm.
Someone knew my military rank.
Someone knew my name.
Someone knew Lucas was my son.
And they had deliberately kept him hidden.
“Emily,” I said quietly, “did Lucas tell you anything else?”
She reached beneath her sweater.
This time she pulled out a small silver object.
A watch.
I recognized it immediately.
My father's old military watch.
I had given it to Lucas on his tenth birthday.
My initials were engraved on the back.
S.R.
I picked it up with trembling fingers.
“Where did he get this?”
“He gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“He said I should keep it.”
“Why?”
“He said you would know.”
I turned the watch over.
The hands had stopped at 4:17.
My son's favorite number had been seventeen.
But there was something else.
The back had been scratched.
Not damaged.
Marked.
Three tiny lines.
Then a circle.
A symbol I recognized from my military years.
A location marker.
My blood went cold.
Lucas had not simply given Emily a watch.
He had left me a message.
I looked at her.
“Did Lucas tell you where he was going?”
She shook her head.
“He said he had to leave before dark.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said the woman was taking him somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
She looked frightened again.
“But he told me something.”
“What?”
Emily leaned closer.
“He said, ‘If you see a soldier who looks sad, give him my picture.’”
My throat tightened.
“He knew you would find me?”
Emily nodded.
“He said you always find people.”
I looked away.
For one year, I had believed I had failed my son.
Now I wondered if Lucas had been trying to find me too.
Then Emily suddenly grabbed my sleeve.
“Don't go to Saint Matthew's.”
“Why?”
“Because that's where she waits.”
“Who?”
Emily's face went white.
“The woman.”
I stood.
“Then we need to know where she took Lucas.”
Emily's eyes filled with fear.
“I know.”
“How?”
She reached into the pocket of my coat.
I frowned.
She had slipped something inside while I wasn't looking.
A child's drawing.
A crude picture of a church.
A blue car.
A man.
And a red circle around a building.
At the bottom, written in a child's handwriting, were four words.
THE OLD TRAIN STATION.
I stared at the drawing.
Chicago had dozens of abandoned rail buildings.
But one stood less than a mile from Saint Matthew's.
Union Freight Yard.
Closed twelve years earlier.
“Did Lucas draw this?”
Emily nodded.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
I looked at her.
“Then why didn't you tell me immediately?”
She hesitated.
“Because Lucas told me not to trust grown-ups.”
That sentence hurt.
“What changed?”
“You gave me your coat.”
I swallowed.
“And that made you trust me?”
She nodded.
“People don't give away warm things if they're bad.”
I had no answer.
I stood and pulled out my phone.
For the first time that day, I looked at the seventeen missed calls from my staff.
I called my operations officer.
“Major Bennett.”
His voice came instantly.
“General, where are you?”
“Forget that. I need a location search around Saint Matthew's and the old Union Freight Yard.”
A pause.
“Sir?”
“My son may have been seen there yesterday.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Understood.”
I looked at Emily.
She was watching me.
“General?”
“I'm listening.”
“Sir, there is something you should know.”
“What?”
“The photograph you sent to the investigators last year.”
“What about it?”
“We just found the original metadata.”
My heart stopped.
“From where?”
“It wasn't taken by your ex-wife.”
I stared at the rain beyond the window.
“Then who took it?”
Bennett's answer came quietly.
“Your son.”
I looked down at the photograph in my hand.
Lucas hadn't simply left a picture with Emily.
He had taken it himself.
And suddenly I understood the terrifying possibility.
My son had been documenting where he was.
Which meant he hadn't been helpless.
He had been trying to leave a trail.
Then Bennett spoke again.
“General, there's one more thing.”
May you like
“What?”
“The photograph was taken yesterday.”
