The ride to the station was agony. Twenty minutes of staring at the back of my daughter’s head, seeing Amy’s stubborn cowlick that no amount of gel could tame.
She kept checking the mirror, probably wondering if she had a stalker in her backseat.
At the station, she passed me off to another officer for processing.
But I saw her watching from across the room as they took my prints, my photo, ran my record.
Clean except for some minor stuff from the ’90s—bar fights during the angry years after Sarah disappeared.
The breathalyzer came back 0.00. The blood test would too. Officer Chen frowned at the results.
“Told you I was sober,” I said when she came back.
“Why were you acting so strange?”
“Can I show you something? It’s in my vest. A photo.”
She hesitated, then nodded to the desk sergeant who handed her my belongings.
She went through my vest pockets—the knife, the challenge coins from my Marine days, some cash. Then she found it. The photo worn soft as cloth.
Her face went white.
It was Sarah at two years old, sitting on my Harley, wearing my oversized vest, laughing at the camera.
Amy had taken it two weeks before they disappeared. The last good day we’d had as a family, even divorced.
“Where did you get this?” Her voice was sharp, professional, but underneath, something else. Fear? Recognition?
“That’s my daughter. Sarah Elizabeth McAllister. Born September 3rd, 1990, at 3 AM. Eight pounds, two ounces. She had colic for three months and only stopped crying when I rode her around the neighborhood on my bike. Her first word was ‘vroom.’”
Officer Chen stared at the photo, then at me, then back at the photo. I saw the moment she saw it—the resemblance. The same nose, the same stubborn chin.
“My name is Sarah Chen,” she said slowly. “I was adopted when I was three.”
“Adopted?”
“My adoptive parents told me my biological parents died in a motorcycle accident. Said that’s why I was scared of bikes.”
The room spun. Amy hadn’t just taken her. She’d killed us in Sarah’s mind. Made us dead so she’d never look for us.
“Your mother’s name was Amy,” I said.
“Amy Patricia Williams before she married me. She had a scar on her left hand from a kitchen accident. She was allergic to strawberries. She sang Fleetwood Mac in the shower.”
Sarah’s hand was trembling now. “My adoptive mother… her sister Amy… she died when I was five. Car accident.”
“No.” The word came out broken. “No, she took you. March 15th, 1993. I’ve been looking—”
“Stop.” Sarah backed away. “This isn’t— My parents are Richard and Linda Chen. They raised me. They—”
“Call them,” I said. “Ask them about Amy. Ask them if she was really Linda’s sister. Ask them why there are no pictures of you before age three.”
“You’re lying.”
“DNA test. I’ll pay for it. Rush it. Please.”
She was crying now, this tough cop who’d cuffed me an hour ago.
“My parents admitted it,” she whispered.
“My parents. Adoptive parents. Whatever they are. Amy was Linda’s sister. They showed up with me when I was two, said my father was dangerous, that we needed new identities. They helped her hide us. When Amy died in that car accident, they just… kept me. Kept the lie.”
“Sarah—”
“They said you were in a motorcycle gang. That you were violent.”
“I’m in the Sacred Riders. We raise money for veterans’ kids. Every penny I could spare after searching for you went to children who lost parents in the service. I thought… I thought if I helped enough kids, karma would bring you back.”
She sat down across from me, this stranger who was my daughter. “The scar above my eyebrow?”
“Tricycle. You were trying to pop a wheelie like you saw me do on my bike. Needed three stitches. You were so brave, didn’t cry once. The nurse gave you a Tweety Bird sticker.”
“I still have it,” she said quietly. “In my baby book. The one thing that didn’t make sense—a Tweety Bird sticker from a hospital I’d never heard of.”
“Mercy General in Sacramento. It closed in ’95.”
“Why didn’t you… why didn’t anyone find us?”
“Your mother was smart. Richard had connections, money. They knew how to disappear. And after Amy died, there was no trail at all. You were just Sarah Chen, adopted daughter of respectable people.”
