The girl’s lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged. Sarah whispered from behind him, “That’s the most response we’ve gotten from her all morning.”
Tom sat in the chair beside the bed, instinct telling him not to push further. Instead, he began to talk quietly about simple things: the weather, the friendly squirrel he’d seen on the hospital grounds, the kind nurses. As he spoke, he noticed the girl’s shoulders gradually relaxing, her fingers loosening their death grip on the blanket. When he finally stood to leave, promising to return, the girl’s hand suddenly moved—a small, quick gesture toward the bracelet.
“I’ll help you find out what happened, little one,” he said softly. “I promise.”
Walking out of the hospital, Tom made a decision that defied his captain’s warning. This wouldn’t be just another case file. This child wasn’t just another statistic to be processed through the system. He would find answers, even if it meant delaying retirement, even if it meant reopening his own painful past.
The abandoned house on Maple Lane stood silent under the morning sun, its faded blue exterior a stark contrast to the crime scene tape that now framed the property. Tom ducked under the yellow barrier, badge glinting as he approached the front door.
“Morning, Shepard,” called a detective who’d been assigned to the case. “Thought you’d be enjoying your pre-retirement days on easy patrol.”
Tom shrugged. “Just following up. The girl’s condition is still critical.”
“Well, we’ve done the preliminary sweep. Looks like she might have been homeless, seeking shelter.”
Tom’s instincts told him otherwise. “Mind if I take another look around?”
The detective waved him on. “Be my guest.”
When the detective’s car disappeared, Tom stood in the doorway, taking in the house with fresh eyes. Dust covered most surfaces, but as he moved through the living room, subtle details caught his attention. A couch with a depression in one cushion, a shelf with spaces where items had recently sat, leaving dust-free rectangles.
“Someone was living here,” Tom muttered.
The kitchen told a more revealing story. A container of milk expired just one week ago. A box of children’s cereal, half-empty. These weren’t signs of abandonment from months or years past. He moved methodically through the house, documenting everything with his phone camera. Upstairs, the bathroom contained a child’s toothbrush. In what appeared to be the master bedroom, he found an unmade bed and women’s clothing in the closet. But it was the second bedroom that sent a chill down his spine. The door was locked from the outside with a heavy sliding bolt.
Tom stared at the lock, his heart pounding. After photographing it, he carefully slid the bolt open. The room was sparse: a small bed with thin blankets, a lamp, a few children’s books. What struck Tom was the contrast: while the rest of the house showed neglect, this room was meticulously maintained. The bed was made with hospital corners. The books were arranged by size. On the wall hung a child’s drawing: a stick figure of a girl holding a doll, with a sun shining above them. In crude lettering across the top, “Me and Mea.”
“Not her name,” Tom whispered, photographing the drawing. “Her doll.”
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye: a small piece of paper peeking out from beneath the bed. Kneeling, Tom retrieved what turned out to be a photograph, creased and worn from handling. It showed a woman with haunted eyes holding an infant. Tom flipped it over. Written in faded ink: Leanne and Amelia, May 2017.
“Amelia,” Tom repeated softly. Could this be her real name?
In the hallway, he noticed a calendar. The days were crossed off methodically until October 3rd, just three weeks ago. Next to that date, a single word: Medicine.
His phone rang, startling him. It was Sarah, the nurse. “Officer Shepard, I thought you should know. Our Jane Doe just spoke her first word.”
Tom’s grip tightened on the phone. “What did she say?”
“It wasn’t very clear, but it sounded like… ‘Mama.’”
Tom arrived at the hospital, clutching the photograph, his police instincts on full alert.
“She’s been asking for you,” Sarah said, leading him down the corridor. “Not by name, but she keeps looking at the door.”
“Has she said anything else?”
“Just that one word. The doctors say it’s normal for children who’ve experienced trauma to be selective about speaking.” She paused outside the room. “She doesn’t respond well to men in uniform, so…” Tom nodded, removing his badge and tucking it into his pocket.
The little girl—Amelia, if his hunch was correct—was sitting up in bed, arranging stuffed animals. When Tom entered, her eyes immediately locked onto his.
“Hello again,” Tom said softly. “I brought something I thought you might want to see.” He approached slowly and placed the photograph on the bed.
The girl’s reaction was immediate: a sharp intake of breath, her small hand reaching out to touch the woman’s face with trembling fingers.
“Is that your mom?” Tom asked. “Is her name Leanne?”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears, but she remained silent.
“And is your name… Amelia?”
At this, she looked up, the faintest nod confirming what Tom had suspected.
“Amelia,” Tom repeated, his voice warm with relief. “That’s a beautiful name.” A single tear rolled down her cheek as she clutched the photograph to her chest.
Tom sat in the chair beside her. “Amelia, I want to help you. Can you help me understand who ‘Mea’ is?”
At the mention of the name, her expression changed. A flash of longing, of desperate need. Her free hand moved to her wrist where the bracelet had been.
“Is Mea your doll?” Tom asked gently.
Another slight nod, more tears welling up. Tom leaned forward, his voice gentle but determined. “I’ll try to find Mea for you, Amelia. I promise.”
After leaving her room, Tom headed straight to the police station. The records department was his destination. “Property records for 1623 Maple Lane,” he told the clerk. “And anything we have on a woman named Leanne, who might have lived there with her daughter, Amelia.”
The results were startling. The property was purchased eight years ago by a Leanne Mills, paid for in cash. There was one domestic disturbance call from nine years ago, involving Leanne Mills and a man named Robert Garrett. She had declined to press charges. And then, something else: a missing person’s report, filed three years ago by a Martin Henderson, her social worker. The case had gone cold.
“I need everything you can get me on Martin Henderson,” Tom said. While the clerk searched, he reviewed the property records. Leanne Mills had paid $145,000 in cash for the house, a significant sum for someone with no visible employment history.
“Here’s Henderson,” the clerk said, handing Tom a slip of paper. “Retired two years ago, lives over in Westridge now.”
“One more thing,” Tom said. “Any record of a child registered to Leanne Mills? Birth certificate, school enrollment?”
The search came up empty. “Nothing in our system. If she had a daughter, there’s no official record.”
“That’s not possible,” Tom frowned.
