We met at a park halfway between our houses, neutral ground, like we were doing some kind of hostage exchange.
She was already on a bench, phone in hand, face pale.
“You open it,” she said, holding it out.
I pulled up the report.
Under “Close Family,” one name sat at the top:
Tara B.
– Sister.
My stomach dropped. For a second, all I heard was wind and my own breathing.
Tara slapped a hand over her mouth and started to cry.
“So it’s true,” she choked out. “You’re him.
You’re Caleb.”
My legs felt like rubber. I dropped onto the bench.
I had been a lot of things—foster kid, son, cop—but “Caleb” hit underneath all of them.
We decided to go to Evelyn’s house that same day.
She was in her recliner, wrapped in a blanket, TV murmuring in the background. Her eyes drifted like she was watching a movie only she could see.
Tara knelt beside her.
“Mom,” she said.
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