The Photo on the Table
I drifted closer, pretending to refill their coffee. The leader’s eyes caught mine for a moment before he slipped something from his vest and slid it across the table.
The man opposite unfolded it halfway—and my heart stopped.
It wasn’t a map. It was a photo of a little boy, gap-toothed smile, maybe eight years old.
I knew that face. Posters of him were stapled to poles all over the next county.
Daniel. Missing. Day three.
The plates in my hands felt like lead. Terrifying images filled my mind—the quarry, the dark, a child alone.
I ducked into the kitchen, phone trembling in my grip, thumb hovering over 9-1-1.
But what would I even say? “I think the scary bikers in my diner kidnapped the kid from the news”? They’d hear prejudice, not proof.
I needed more than guesses. I needed truth.
