James Caldwell had it all: a big house in the hills outside of San Francisco, celebrity, and money.
He spent more than twenty years turning his vision into an empire as the founder of a top cybersecurity company in Silicon Valley. He earned a lot of acclaim, but his elegant mansion was quite silent. Not even a wonderful wine or a valuable painting could fill the space.
James’s car drove the same trip downtown every morning, passing through the city’s historic district. There were a couple of homeless youngsters hanging out in front of a bakery there that featured pictures of weddings from the neighbourhood in its window.
There was a picture of James’s wedding from ten years ago in the upper right corner. James let the bakery owner’s sister, who was an amateur photographer, show it out because it was about what he thought was the best day of his life.
But that happiness didn’t last very long. Emily, his wife, went missing six months after they got married. No note, no demands. Nothing. The police said it was “suspicious,” but there was no proof, so the matter was dropped. James never married again. He worked so hard that he constructed a digital fortress around his life. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to Emily every day.
James was on his way to a board meeting on a rainy Thursday morning when traffic slowed down near the bakery. He looked out of his tinted window and saw a young child, maybe 10 years old, barefoot and damp, peering up at the image. At first, James didn’t pay any attention to him. But then the little boy pointed to the image and muttered softly to a neighbouring merchant:
“That’s my mum.”
James’s heart skipped a beat.
He rolled the window down to the middle. The boy looked thin, his hair was unkempt, and his shirt was too big for him. James gazed at his face and felt a strange pull in his stomach. There was no doubt about what the youngster was looking at. Hazel green, just like Emily’s.
“Hey, kid,” James said. “What did you just say?”
The kid turned around and blinked at him. He pointed to the image again and added, “That’s my mum.” Before I went to sleep, she would sing to me. I can still hear her. And then one day she was gone.
James got out of the car even though his driver told him not to. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Luca,” the youngster muttered, and he shivered.
“Luca…” James knelt down to look him in the eye. “Where do you live?”
Luca turned away. “Nowhere.” “Sometimes below the bridge.” “Sometimes close to the tracks.”
“Do you remember anything else about your mum?” James asked, keeping his voice steady.
Luca said, “She liked roses.” “She wore a necklace with a white stone on it. “Like a pearl.”
James’s heart sank. Emily’s mother gave her a pearl necklace that she always wore. It was one of a kind and really special.
James went on, “I have something important to ask you.” “Do you know who your dad is?”
Luca shook his head. “I’ve never met him.”
The proprietor of the bakery came outside because of the noise. James stared at her. “Have you ever met this boy before?”
She gave a nod. “Yes, he comes by from time to time. Doesn’t want anything. “Just look at that picture.”
James cancelled his meeting soon away. He brought Luca to a diner nearby and got him something hot to eat. As they sat, James asked more questions in a hushed voice. Luca’s memories were all over the place and not comprehensive. A woman singing, a flat with green walls, and a teddy bear named Max. James could hardly believe what he was hearing, but something deep down told him that the truth was finally coming out.
He arranged for a DNA test. That night, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing:
So where has Emily been all these time if Luca is my boy?
Three days later, the findings came in.
99.9% match: James Caldwell was Luca Evans’s biological father.
James looked at the folder in horror and disbelief. His son was the unclean boy who pointed to a picture in the bakery window. A son he didn’t know he had.
But how? No one ever knew that Emily was pregnant. But after six months of marriage, she fled. If she known, she might not have had the chance to tell him. Or maybe she attempted but something stopped her.
James began a private inquiry. Because of his contacts, it proceeded quickly. He hired Allen Briggs again. Briggs was a retired investigator who had worked on the first missing person case. Briggs didn’t believe it at first, but he agreed to look into the case again because of the fresh facts.
“We didn’t have anything back then,” Briggs said. “But a child changes everything.” That gives her an excuse to leave if she was taking care of a newborn.
Within a few days, new evidence came to light.
Emily was still there, but not totally. She went to a women’s shelter two towns over eight years ago and used the name “Marie Evans.” There were a lot of locked files, but one featured a photo of a woman with hazel-green eyes holding a baby. What is the baby’s name? Luca.
Briggs learnt that her next stop was a clinic in Nevada, where she went for prenatal care using a phoney name. But she ran away in the middle of therapy and was never seen there again.
James’s mind was racing. She had been running. But from who?
The name Derrick Blane was the most vital clue, and it was in an old police record that had been sealed. Emily’s ex-boyfriend. James didn’t remember much about him, other than what Emily had mentioned about his being possessive and maybe even dangerous. James never met him, and Emily stated she hadn’t talked to him in years. He didn’t realise that Derrick had been free for three months before Emily went missing.
Briggs found out that Emily had asked for a restraining order against Derrick two weeks before she went missing, but it was never finalised. Not safe. No follow-up.
The picture became clearer: Derrick had undoubtedly found Emily. He might have scared her. It might be even worse. She ran away to protect her unborn child. Changed who she was. Gone.
But why did Luca end up living on the street?
Briggs found one last horrible twist. It was officially said that Emily had died two years ago. A body had washed ashore on the beach nearby. It was the same height and wore clothes like the ones Emily wore when she went missing. The authorities closed the case. But they never found out for sure whose body it was. The dental records never matched up. It wasn’t her.
Carla, the woman who used to operate the shelter where Emily stayed, gave James his next lead. She remembered Emily very well now that she was older.
Carla said, “She was scared.” He said, “Someone was after her.” I helped bring Luca into this world. But one night, she just left. I was always scared that someone would catch up to her.
James couldn’t say anything.
Then the major thing took place.
The woman who was arrested shoplifting in Portland, Oregon, looked like Emily. When officials verified her fingerprints, they set off an alarm for a missing person case that had been pending for eleven years.
James flew out that night.
Through the glass pane, he could see a thin, pale woman with sorrowful eyes at the detention centre. It was her, even if she was older and weaker.
“Emily.”
She turned around slowly. She shivered when she touched the glass. She cried a lot.
“I thought you were gone,” James said quietly.
“I had to keep him safe,” she said. “Derrick found me,” I said. I ran. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
James did everything he could to get her to stop accusing him. He brought her home. Gave her a counsellor. And most significantly, he got her back together with Luca.
When Luca saw her, he didn’t say anything. He went over and hugged her tightly.
Emily fell into her son’s arms and cried after 10 years of hiding, being scared, and not knowing what to do.
James legally took Luca in. He and Emily slowly began to rebuild. She testified against Derrick, who had been arrested again for domestic violence since then. They looked at her case again, and this time justice won.
James would sometimes stop outside the bakery and look at the wedding picture that used to make him cry. Now it meant something else entirely.
It was a symbol of affection. Of living. Of fate’s strange, gentle hand returning back to give back what was lost.