Dad tapped the paper gently. “Claire Whitman was once listed as an emergency contact for Ryan Carter on an old rental application.”
“How did you get that?”
“Legally,” he said, before I could ask. “A friend connected me with a private investigator. Retired police. Very careful.”
I exhaled.
Dad leaned back. “Claire rented an apartment with Ryan four years ago. They separated less than a year later. After that, she seems to have disappeared from most public records.”
“Disappeared?”
“Changed addresses several times. No social media. No current phone listing.”
The baby moved, a slow roll under my palm.
“Dad,” I whispered, “what happened to her baby?”
His face softened. “I don’t know.”
For the first time, I realized Claire’s letter was not only a warning. It was a plea from someone who had been afraid long before I was.
The next morning, I made a decision.
“I want to find her.”
