Chapter 3

The detective took me to meet William Lane, the former captain of the river rescue team. He lived in an old apartment building on the north bank of the river. Faded water-level charts covered the walls.

“The river was running dangerously high that year.” William pointed to a red line on one of the charts. “We found a child downstream. He was still breathing.”

He pulled a transparent evidence bag from a wooden chest. Inside was a stiff piece of blue fabric, with half a yellow sunflower embroidered along one edge. “This was the boy’s clothing. No one ever came to claim it, so we kept it.”

I did not reach for it right away.

My mother used to embroider sunflowers on our clothes. She always said that one would never forget which way led home if we just faced the sun.

I finally reached out to take the fabric. My fingertip brushed against a crooked line of stitching.

When I was five, just before Elizabeth pushed me into the river, I grabbed her sleeve. One of the buttons on her clothes scraped my hand. That crooked stitch was where my mother had mended the tear afterward.

William pulled out another document. It was the original transfer record from that year.

“Someone from the Spencer family came by. They said the boy was dead and told us to seal the records.”

“Who signed it?”

“Elizabeth Spencer.” He pointed to the name beside the fingerprint.

My fingers went rigid against the paper.

I did not die in that river when I was five, but when she signed that document, she had already killed me once.

William looked at me and softened his voice. “I was afraid of trouble when I was young too. The Spencer family gave the station money for repairs, and I stopped asking questions.”

“Are you willing to testify now?”

He fell silent for a moment. Then, he took a pair of reading glasses from the drawer and put them on. “When you get old, you realize you should leave something clean behind.”

He signed the witness declaration, his hand trembling as the pen moved across the page.

I did not rush him. A late testimony was still testimony.

The second piece of evidence came from an old tailor named Leon Davis. He studied the piece of fabric for a long time before pulling out a mold-stained order ledger.

“The Spencer family ordered two identical shirts back then. One for their eldest daughter and one for their youngest son.”

My mother’s signature was on the order. The size was for a five-year-old boy.

Leon remembered the sunflower stitching because my mother had personally requested the design.

My lawyer, Henry, sealed the documents in an evidence bag. “We still need to establish his identity. DNA, old injuries, and a familial DNA sample from the adult relatives. We need all three.”

I placed my medical records on the table.

My left ear had suffered hearing loss. My right knee bore an old injury, and a seven-centimeter curved scar marked the skin beneath my collarbone.

These were not pieces of a story. They were the receipts my body had kept for surviving.

“The Spencer family will refuse to provide samples,” Henry reminded

“Then let their refusal become the evidence.”

He glanced at the invitation to the charity gala. “Are you planning to reveal everything there?”

“Elizabeth loves lying when she’s surrounded by applause.” I closed the invitation. “So let her hear the truth over that same applause.”

The evening before the reveal, I returned to Jonah Lowe’s old construction site. The site had long since been replaced by office buildings, with only a few temporary structures remaining in one corner. They were about to be torn down.

I stood at the entrance and saw the faded marks I had carved into the wall years ago while practicing my handwriting.

Jonah walked over with a thermos in his hand. “Don’t be afraid tomorrow.”

“What would I be afraid of?”

“That she’ll actually cry when she sees you.”

I smiled.

“She’s been crying for 20 years. She’s had plenty of practice. Not every tear is worth something.”

Jonah handed me a blue shirt. “Wear this tomorrow. The color matches that piece of fabric.”

I took it from him. The moment my fingers brushed the fabric, I felt a faint pressure in my chest.

It was not a weakness. It was the feeling of finally bringing the five-year-old version of myself into the light.

…

The gala was held at the tallest hotel in River City. White lights hung beneath the glass dome overhead.

Elizabeth stood at the center of the stage, with the logo of the missing-person foundation she had founded with Marcus behind her.

“A sister who spent twenty years waiting for her younger brother.” She let the words linger.

Applause filled the ballroom. Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest, her voice trembling with emotion. “If he’s still alive, I’ll find him. I’d do anything for him.”

The applause grew louder.

Marcus stood offstage, shaking hands with one guest after another. A family crest was pinned to his chest. It was the same crest that should have belonged to Jensen Spencer.

I rose from the VIP section. The host spotted me and approached with a smile.

“Mr. Lowe, are you here to make a donation to the search fund?”

“I already have.”

“May I know which one?”

“I donated 20 years of my life.”

The smile froze on his face. The ballroom gradually fell silent, but the cameras kept rolling.

I stepped into the spotlight and faced Elizabeth.

Confusion flickered across her face, then she recognized my eyes. Her fingers tightened around the microphone.

“Who are you?” she asked.

I did not look at the missing-person slogan behind her.

“Elizabeth, I’m the younger brother you pushed into the river.” I paused for a moment. “Let me use the name you know best, Jensen Spencer.”