An Unfinished Story(70)

Inside a one-story office building close to downtown, the young man—possibly an intern—at the front desk wasn’t nearly as impressed with Whitaker’s local celebrity as much as he was with Claire’s brief story. He did warm up once Whitaker mentioned Carissa, though. “She’s out of the office today, but let me ask Sophie if she has a minute to help you.” A few minutes later, Sophie came around the corner wearing a pink suit jacket. After introductions, she led them to an empty meeting room with a large chalkboard covering most of one wall. The words THINK WITH YOUR HEART, NOT WITH YOUR HEAD were written in large block letters in the center.

Once they were situated in the chairs around the long conference table, the woman in pink looked at Claire incredulously. “So you’re trying to find a young man who may have known your deceased husband?”

“Yes, exactly.” Claire handed her the photograph. “We think my husband, David, was possibly helping him, perhaps acting as a mentor. Honestly, I’m not sure. I just know that this boy has some answers I’ve been looking for.”

“And you’ve heard, I’m assuming, how much effort the state puts into attempting to protect the children. I’m not saying you two have any ill intentions, but there are many parents we’d like to prevent from discovering their child’s location.”

“Yes, I totally get that.”

Sophie looked at the picture. “What’s his name?”

“Orlando.”

“You don’t know his last name?”

Claire shook her head. “All we have is the picture and his first name—or what we think is his first name.”

Sophie blew out a slow breath and shook her head as if they’d just asked her to find a sunken ship in the Gulf.

“And his age,” Whitaker chimed in. “We think he’s about fourteen.”

“If my husband was mentoring him, you know, spending time with him, wouldn’t he have had to register in some way? Wouldn’t there be paperwork?”

Sophie nodded. “He would have had to do a background check, get fingerprinted.”

“Which would be in the boy’s file?”

“Yes, but not something you could access.”

Claire was scrambling. “Is there a way to reach out to every case manager in the area via email with the photo?”

The woman stifled a grin. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Claire sighed. “What do we do then?”

“There are a few websites where children that are up for adoption are listed . . . with pictures. I’d start there.” She named four sites as Claire typed them into her phone. “These are only children up for adoption, not everyone in the system. And they’re not exhaustive lists by any means, but at least it’s worth looking through.” She tapped her pen in thought. “DCF won’t help you without a court order.”

“DCF?” Claire asked.

Whitaker knew the answer. “Florida Department of Children and Families.”

Claire removed her glasses. “What else do we do? What would you do?”

Sophie pondered the question. “It’s a tough one. You could perhaps convince someone to share the list of licensing agents, the ones who license all the homes. They know their kids. But I don’t know that they’d help you. We’re all working to protect the children.”

“Could you help us get the list?” Claire asked.

“I don’t have it.” She looked at Whitaker. “Maybe Carissa can help you. I’d try Google. I’m really sorry, but they take this seriously. Honestly, you’re going to run into a lot of brick walls. Please don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I’d say the best thing you can do is try to get lucky on social media. You can find a lot of Facebook groups with foster parents in the area. Maybe they can help you.”

Whitaker had joined a few local groups involved with the foster care system as part of his research, but he’d never posted before. It wasn’t a bad idea. He’d do anything to find Orlando, even if that meant using his celebrity and getting the media involved.

Back in the convertible, Claire drove them into town. Sarasota came off cleaner and wealthier than St. Pete—perhaps more populated by semiretired snowbirds with disposable income. Whitaker had always loved the vibrancy of Sarasota and appreciated the juxtaposition between it and St. Pete. If they were colors, St. Pete would be orange and purple. Sarasota was bleached white and light blue.

They checked into their rooms at the Sarasota Modern, which they’d booked online on the way down. Hearing the Latin electronic beats easing through the lobby and seeing the pool with its fancy cabanas, tall palm trees, and slick outside bar, Whitaker felt like he was in Miami for a moment. Claire said she’d go through the list of websites, looking at pictures in her room, while Whitaker worked Facebook from his. They asked the concierge for restaurant recommendations and agreed to meet back in the lobby in an hour.

After a quick shower, Whitaker perched up on the balcony overlooking downtown and logged into Facebook. Finding a few of the groups he’d been stalking, he announced himself and mentioned that he was helping someone locate a boy, but all he had was a picture and a first name. Hopefully, he could appeal to someone who could help.



Claire propped three down pillows behind her on the bed in her room. A group of children were playing Marco Polo in the pool below, and Claire loved the sound of their voices sneaking through the cracked balcony door. With the picture of David and Orlando in her hand, she pulled up the first website the woman at the placing agency had shared and navigated to the available children.