"I just found him. And now he's gone again. " Outside the city stirred to life, unaware of the small tragedy playing out in one downtown office. Traffic began to build as early commuters headed to work. A garbage truck made its rounds, metal bins clanging in the quiet morning air. Somewhere in those awakening streets, Isaiah Boon walked away from hope once again, believing that his disappearance was the only gift he could give those who had tried to help him.
The morning sun cast long shadows across empty streets as Maya and Evelyn drove through the city's forgotten corners. Every homeless shelter, every soup kitchen, every place Isaiah might seek refuge yielded nothing but sympathetic headshakes and worried looks. "He knows these streets too well," Maya said, steering through another intersection. If he doesn't want to be found. Evelyn pressed her hand against the passenger window, scanning the sidewalks.
I can't lose him again. Not like this. Her voice cracked. 20 years I thought he was dead. Now he's out there somewhere.
Thinking he has to disappear to protect us. Maya's phone buzzed. Judge Price's name lit up the screen. She put it on speaker. I think I know where he might be.
The judge said without preamble. The old Riverside complex on 12th Street. It's where everything started. The building that burned? Evelyn asked, sitting straighter.
Yes, it's been abandoned since the fire. I'm heading there now. Maya made a sharp U-turn, tires squealing. We'll meet you. No.
Price cut in firmly. Let me talk to him first. Sometimes it takes someone who's seen the same shadows to help find the light again. The line went dead. Evelyn started to protest, but Maya shook her head.
The judge is right. Isaiah needs to make this choice himself. The Riverside complex loomed against the morning sky like a decaying monument to corruption. Judge Price parked his car and walked slowly toward the chain-link fence surrounding the property. Faded no trespassing signs rattled in the breeze.
He found Isaiah sitting on a concrete barrier, staring at the burned-out shell of the building. 20 years of weathering hadn't erased the scorch marks that climbed the walls like black fingers. Six people died here, Isaiah said without turning. His voice was heavy with old pain. I tried to tell them the wiring was dangerous.
Filed report after report, but someone got paid to look the other way. Price settled beside him on the barrier. I remember the case. The construction company claimed the fire started in a tenant's apartment. Faulty space heater.