An Unfinished Story(78)

“I don’t care what’s on the other side of this door. I’m not moving until someone answers.”

They didn’t have to wait long. A rather large man in an oversize T-shirt with his hair greased back opened up the door halfway. “What can I do for you?”

Claire put her hand on Whitaker’s arm, letting him know that she wanted to take charge. “We’re looking for a boy who lives here. Or used to about three years ago. This is a group home, right?”

The man had a slight lisp. “Yes, it is, but I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Another brick wall.

Claire put up a hand. “No, wait. I understand that you’re not able to share information, and I get it. But this is a special case.” Claire searched for the strength to be convincing. “My husband died three years ago, and he used to work at the architecture firm just north of here on Fourth. I’ve found a picture recently of my husband and this boy, and it seems my husband was helping him out of some trouble, doing some mentoring. I just want to talk to him a little bit. His name is Oliver.”

The man shook his head and started to close the door. “Even if someone named Oliver did live here, I wouldn’t tell you. I’d lose my job.”

“What can we do then?” Whitaker asked.

“You’ll need to go through the placement agency. They’re the only ones who might be able to help you. But, honestly, I’m not sure they will.”

“Wait, please,” Claire said. “Would you just take a look at this picture?” Claire didn’t wait for a response. She held out the photo and watched the man’s eyes, hoping to see the twinkle of recognition.

He glanced at it briefly. “Again, I’m sorry. You need to go about this legally.”

Whitaker backed up. “He’s right.”

As much as she wanted answers, Claire knew the man was indeed right. But they were so close. Turning away, she broke into a cry and started down the steps, following Whitaker.

She heard the man sigh behind her. “Look.”

Claire glanced back optimistically.

“He’s not here, okay? He wouldn’t have been here that long anyway. He’d either be reunited with his birth parents, placed with a foster family, or, hopefully, adopted. I hope that helps. It’s all I can do for you.”

Claire pretended to wipe tears from her eyes. “What’s the name of this place? Just so we can tell the placement agency.”

“The Oakwood House.”

Claire and Whitaker thanked him and returned to the convertible.

Buttoning his seat belt, Whitaker asked, “Did you just fake a cry?”

Claire turned to him with a smile playing at the corner of her lips. The things she was capable of to get at the truth.

“You manipulating scoundrel. How dare you.”

She put the car in “Drive” and pulled away. “How did you know?”

“I’ve heard you cry enough over the past few months. It’s the first time you crying didn’t break my heart. That’s how I knew.”

Claire hung a left. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find Oliver.”

“Yeah, me too.”



They stopped for tacos on Central and sat outside overlooking a stunning graffiti portrait of a woman trapped and floating in a fishbowl, which covered the entire side of an old brick building.

“I know exactly how she feels,” Claire said before biting into a chip. She was sitting opposite Whitaker.

He drank a sip of water from the red plastic cup in front of him. “I think we all do.”

Whitaker’s phone lit up, and he read a Facebook message to himself. “Well, look at that. The placement agency wrote me back. Sent me a contact. A woman named Laura. Let me try her.” He left a message on her voice mail and followed up with a text message.

After downing a salty chip with the particularly smoky and delicious salsa, Whitaker looked at Claire, who was still lost in the graffiti. “You still with me?”

She looked at him. “Yeah, sorry. What an emotionally draining day.”

“I can only imagine. But you know what? We’re getting somewhere. What a meaningful journey we’re on. And we will find Oliver. I know it.”

Claire dipped a chip into the smoky salsa.

Before she could retract her hand, Whitaker grabbed a chip from the basket and playfully stabbed hers, knocking off the salsa.

Claire gasped as she looked at Whitaker’s guilty, smiling face. Whitaker watched the tension relax in her body. “You can always make me smile. Thanks for that.”

They met eyes and shared a lovely moment.

“I like making you smile,” Whitaker whispered. After they ate their chips, he put his hand on the soft skin of her wrist. “I know this isn’t the right time to ask, but I’m doing it anyway.” He ignored the fear of rejection creeping up his throat. She’d kissed him this morning. What did he have to worry about? “Would you allow me to take you out tonight?”

She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Look at me. Do you really feel like taking me out?”

“Ten thousand million percent yes. I’ve wanted nothing more for months. I like you. You like me. Let’s do this.”

She set her glasses down on the table. “Is this how the intriguing, sensitive, and complicated Whitaker Grant asks women on dates?”