A Napkin with Names
I went back out, towel hiding my shaking hands.
“More coffee?”
The leader nodded. The photo still lay there—Daniel’s smiling face staring back.
Then chairs scraped. Wallets opened. Cash stacked on the table.
The bell shrieked again. And suddenly, they were gone.
Under their tip was the folded paper—but it wasn’t the photo.
It was a napkin, covered in scrawled notes:
“Sheriff Miller — no help (‘ran away’)”
“State Police — ‘wait 48 hrs’”
“Frankie’s garage — alibi holds”
These weren’t the notes of kidnappers. They were the notes of people searching.
And at the bottom, circled three times—one name: Richard Henderson.
My boss.
The quarry’s name. His name. The way he vanished when they came in.
Not fear—recognition.
