“No, sir,” the boy replied almost instantly. “On the streets, if you lie, sooner or later someone beats it out of you… or you end up starving.”
Nathan glanced at him for just a second—and suddenly recognized him. The kid was the cook’s son, the one who sometimes helped his mother carry groceries into the mansion. Nathan had watched him from a distance before.
He’d just never really seen him.
Until now.
The city faded behind them, and the landscape grew bare and forgotten—abandoned warehouses, overgrown lots, rusted fences. The car turned onto a dirt road that made the chassis rattle.
“Down there,” Aiden said, pointing toward some crumbling buildings. “Near that busted-up factory.”
Nathan slowed. The wind whistled through the broken windows, making a low, eerie sound. Everything smelled of rust and damp and neglect.
When the car stopped, Aiden jumped out first. He walked ahead with the certainty of someone who knew every crack in the pavement.
“She was right here, sir,” he said, pointing to a peeling concrete wall. “Lying on an old blanket. And the dog was right next to her.”
Nathan moved forward slowly, heart pounding. On the floor, just as Aiden had described, lay a threadbare blanket, a dented metal bowl with dried crumbs, and fresh paw prints in the dirt. He knelt down and ran his fingers over them.
“My God…” he breathed.
Suddenly, a hoarse bark echoed nearby. Aiden and Nathan whipped their heads toward the sound.
“That’s him,” Aiden said. “That’s the dog.”
They ran toward the barking. From behind a half-collapsed wall, weaving between ripped sacks and soggy cardboard, a black dog appeared—thin, filthy, but alive. The instant he saw Nathan, the dog whined, tail wagging weakly.
“Ranger…” Nathan’s voice broke. “It’s really you?”
He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, pulling him close. Ranger licked his face and whimpered, as if scolding him and forgiving him at the same time.
Aiden watched quietly. No doubt in his mind—no one could fake a reunion like that.
Nathan noticed a scrap of fabric sticking out from under the blanket. He pulled it free. It was a torn piece of a scarf with delicate hand-stitched edges. He recognized it instantly; Lauren used to drape it over her shoulders all the time.
He pressed it to his face and inhaled. It smelled like dirt and mildew now. But in his mind, it still smelled like her.