The biker stared at the officer’s nameplate as she cuffed him—it read “Sarah Chen.” My daughter.
Officer Chen had pulled me over on Highway 49 for a broken taillight, but when she approached, my breath caught. Her eyes, her nose, the crescent moon birthmark below her left ear—it was unmistakable. The same birthmark I used to kiss goodnight when she was two, before Amy vanished with her.
“License and registration,” she said, professional and cold. My hands shook as I handed them over. I was Robert “Ghost” McAllister. She didn’t know me. She couldn’t know me. But I recognized her instantly—the scar from a tricycle accident, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating.
“Step off the bike, Mr. McAllister.” Her voice was firm. My knees protested as I obeyed. Thirty-one years. Thirty-one years I’d searched for Sarah—every crowd, every town, every young woman with my mother’s eyes.
Amy had disappeared with her in 1993. New identities, no trace. I did everything—police reports, private investigators, every lead—but she was gone.
Now here she was, a cop, cuffing her own father.
Continue reading on next page…