“After the investigator failed to find where Arthur went, I moved back to the county. I didn't have anywhere else to go. I got a job at the old diner on Main Street, then moved here to Route 9 fifteen years ago.”
Thomas closed his eyes, remembering all the times he had driven past this very diner on patrol.
“I’ve driven down this highway a thousand times.”
He opened his eyes, staring at her in disbelief.
“I must have passed this place every single week.”
John stepped further into the room, leaning down to look at his brother.
“Why didn't you ever come in here?”
Thomas shook his head with a bitter smile.
“I always ate at the station or grabbed drive-thru. I never liked sitting down in diners. Dad hated them.”
Margaret let out a soft, sad laugh that was half-sob.
“Arthur hated any place where people talked too much. He was terrified someone would recognize him.”
John looked out the small window of the office toward the parking lot.
“He lived his whole life running from his own evil.”
Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small set of silver keys, placing them on the desk between them.
“I still have his old house in Blackwood. I couldn't bring myself to sell it after he died.”
Margaret looked at the keys, a faint shudder passing through her shoulders.
“Is it still standing?”
Thomas nodded.
“It’s run down, but it’s still there. Full of old boxes I never had the heart to clear out.”
John looked at Thomas, a sharp light in his eyes.
“Maybe it’s time we went back there.”
Thomas looked up, surprised.
“To the farm?”
John nodded grimly.
“There have to be answers in that house. Papers, records, something to explain how a doctor allowed a man to just walk out with a newborn baby.”
Margaret looked between her two sons, her eyes wide with concern.
“Boys... I don't know if I want to dig up those old bones.”
Thomas placed his hand gently over hers.
“Mom, if there was a doctor involved, it means Arthur didn't act alone. It means there’s a record somewhere of what happened to me.”
John agreed, his voice firm.
“We deserve the truth, Mom. All three of us.”
Margaret looked at her eldest son, then at her youngest, seeing the determination in their faces—the same fierce strength she had carried through thirty years of solitude.
She took a deep breath, her hands steadying slightly.
“Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll go with you.”
An hour later, the three of them stood outside in the bright morning sunlight of the diner parking lot.
Sergeant Thomas Miller’s black-and-white patrol car sat parked next to John’s heavy, customized Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
The contrast between the two vehicles was almost comical, yet the two men stood side by side without a hint of division.
Thomas turned to his supervisor on his radio, requesting personal leave for the rest of his shift.
“Sergeant Miller to Dispatch.”
“Go ahead, Thomas,” the crackling voice replied from the dashboard.
“I need to request emergency leave for the rest of the day. Personal family matter.”
There was a brief pause on the radio.
“Is everything alright, Sergeant?”
Thomas looked at Margaret, who was standing beside his car, smoothing down her apron.
“Everything’s better than it’s been in thirty years, Dispatch. Clear my calls.”
“Copy that, Sergeant. Stay safe.”
Thomas clicked off the radio and turned to John.
“Follow me in your bike, or do you want to ride with us?”
John looked at his heavy motorcycle, then at his mother sitting in the front passenger seat of the patrol car.
“I’m riding with you,” John said simply. “My bike can stay here for a few hours. Lou said he’d keep an eye on it.”
John climbed into the back seat of the police cruiser, his massive frame making the rear suspension creak.
Thomas got into the driver’s seat, keying the ignition.
The engine roared to life, and they pulled out of the diner parking lot onto Route 9, heading south toward the small town of Blackwood.
The drive was quiet at first, the rhythmic sound of the tires on the asphalt filling the space between them.