The third file contained photographs. Nina entering the restaurant: still slender, but worn down now, shadows under her eyes. And Alex: thin, guarded, looking so much like Stanton at that age it was almost unsettling. No question remained. The boy who had saved him tonight was his son.
The phone buzzed again. This time Boris was calling.
“Michael, I’ve got troubling information. The neighborhood where the Kellers live is controlled by a crew run by a guy named Samir Gazi. They use local kids as couriers for illegal goods. According to a police source, Nina’s son may have gotten on their radar.”
“What does ‘on their radar’ mean?” Stanton asked sharply.
“He was seen with one of Gazi’s people. Kid from a single-parent home, mother working two jobs—exactly the kind of target they recruit.”
“Is he in danger?”
“Possibly. Police are building a case on Gazi, but they’re not ready to move yet. If the boy got involved, there’s risk.”
Stanton looked at Alex’s photo on the screen. His son. The child he had once refused to claim.
“Boris, I need a car and two men from security. Thirty minutes.”
“What’s going on, Michael?”
“I’m going to find the boy.”
Lower Street sat in an older part of town lined with tired apartment blocks from another era. At two in the morning the neighborhood looked empty and worn out. A few weak streetlights barely lit the peeling facades, and rusting cars sat half-abandoned in the lots. Stanton’s black SUV moved slowly down the street, drawing curious looks from the few people still out. Vehicles like this didn’t belong here.
“Building 14 should be in the next block,” said Sam, one of Stanton’s security men, from behind the wheel.
Michael nodded. The contrast between these run-down streets and his own life felt almost unreal. Somewhere in one of these aging buildings lived the woman he had once loved and the boy who was almost certainly his son.
The SUV stopped in front of an entrance with chipped paint and a broken light fixture. Stanton stepped out, and the cool night air, carrying the smell of damp leaves and trash bins, hit him in the face.
“Wait here,” he told the security men and headed inside.
The front door wasn’t locked. Under the dim glow of a single bulb, Stanton saw scuffed walls and cracked steps. Apartment 78 was on the fifth floor. The elevator was out. As he climbed the creaking stairs, he had the strange sensation of entering a parallel version of his own life—the one Nina and their son might have lived if he had made a different choice.
On the last landing he paused to catch his breath. His heart was pounding, and not just from the climb. What would he say if Nina opened the door? How did a man explain showing up after fifteen years of silence?
Apartment 78 was at the far end of a dim hallway. Stanton rang the bell and listened. Nothing. He rang again, then knocked. No answer.
“If you’re looking for the Kellers, you’re wasting your time,” a raspy voice said behind him.
He turned and saw an older woman in a faded robe peering out from the neighboring apartment.
“Nina hasn’t been around for a week,” she said, studying the late-night visitor in his expensive suit. “And the boy’s been gone even longer. Maybe they went to see family.”
“Do you know if Nina has relatives? Anywhere I might find them?” Stanton stepped toward her.
The woman narrowed her eyes.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
Stanton hesitated. What was he to Nina and Alex? Former boyfriend? The father who had walked away?
“An old family friend,” he said at last. “We lost touch. I wanted to check on them.”
“Friend, huh.” The skepticism in her voice was plain. “Funny. Nina never mentioned friends. Especially ones dressed like that.”
Her eyes flicked to his watch, which probably cost more than everything in her apartment put together.
“We’ve been out of contact a long time,” Stanton said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s important that I find them. If you know anything…”
He took out several hundred-dollar bills. The woman’s eyes lit up, but she shook her head.
“Money won’t help. I don’t know where they are. Nina kept to herself. Didn’t talk much about her business. I do know she’d been crying a lot lately. And that boy—he’d gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. Staying out late. Bad signs.”
“What crowd?” Stanton asked, alert now.
“Local gang. Samir’s the one running it. Everybody around here knows him. Smuggling, extortion, all of it. Likes to pull neighborhood boys into his mess.”
Stanton felt his chest tighten. Boris’s information was checking out.
“Where can I find this Samir?”
The woman recoiled.
