My family abandoned me on a summer trip as a cruel joke, laughing as they drove away and said, “Let’s see if she can handle it.” I never returned, and fifteen years later, when they finally found me,

Daniel slid a photograph across the table. It showed the old wooden sign near Mile 42. Weathered. Crooked. Ordinary.

“Do you recognize the location?” Daniel asked.

Richard turned his eyes away.

“Answer him,” I said.

His gaze snapped back to me. “You think that badge makes you better than us?”

“No,” I said. “Evidence does.”

Mason gave a low laugh. “This is insane. You built your whole life around revenge.”

I studied him. At thirty, he still had the same grin from the back seat, only now polished with veneers and expensive confidence. “No, Mason. I built my life around never needing any of you again. The investigation came later.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Brooke whispered.

I turned toward her. For years, I had imagined what I would say to Brooke. In my memory, she was always holding a camera. She had turned my pain into entertainment before she turned it into income. Her documentary had won regional awards. She had stood before audiences and spoken about the “haunting absence” of a cousin she had helped abandon.

But inside that interview room, she looked exhausted. Not innocent. Only exhausted.

“You had fifteen years,” I said. “You could have mailed the footage anonymously. You could have told one reporter. One detective. One lawyer. You could have called the number printed on the foundation posters with my face on them.”

She started crying. “I was scared of them.”

“I was seventeen.”

For a moment, that stopped her tears.

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