The officers handed me a letter.
Anna,
I was ten when they took you away. You were just a baby. I never stopped looking for you. I didn’t want you to remember that day. I didn’t want you to carry the same emptiness I did.
There were also hospice intake forms dated the same day he’d asked me to watch Jasper.
He wasn’t missing.
He had checked himself into end-of-life care.
The photographs suddenly made sense. They weren’t taken from hiding places. They were taken from across the street, at public events.
He hadn’t been stalking me.
He had been watching his sister.
I rushed to the care facility.
At the front desk, I showed the documents. “I’m his sister,” I said.
They led me to his room.
