After the fire, his wife had blamed him.
Not because he had caused the fire.
Not because he had failed to try.
But because grief makes people desperate to put their pain somewhere.
She told Julian that if he had gone into Lily’s room sooner, their daughter would still be alive.
Julian knew it wasn’t true.
But he believed it anyway.
His wife eventually left him.
Caleb went with her.
And Julian spent the next forty-five years trying to find his son.
I turned another page.
There were newspaper clippings.
Photographs.
Addresses.
Names.
Dates.
Letters that had been returned unopened.
Julian had searched everywhere.
Chicago.
Detroit.
St. Louis.
Denver.
California.
Even Canada.
He had hired private investigators when he could afford them.
He had followed every possible lead.
And every time he found a dead end, he wrote the same sentence in his notebook.
My son is still somewhere in this world.
