Part 2 — The Man on the Porch
Not gradually.
Completely.
I had called his family. I had gone to their house. I had even left messages with people who knew him.
Nothing.
Eventually, I stopped looking.
Now he stood on my porch holding a small blue-wrapped box.
“You need to leave,” I whispered.
Daniel swallowed.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice shook.
“You don’t get to disappear for thirteen years and show up on my daughter’s eighteenth birthday.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to bring photographs of her.”
“I didn’t take that photograph.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
Daniel looked past me toward the living room.
Clara was standing there now.
Her face had gone pale.
“Clara,” he said softly.
She stared at him.
“Who are you?”
Daniel looked at me.
Then back at her.
“My name is Daniel Reed.”
Clara frowned.
“I know that name.”
