Found by Karen Kingsbury Page A

for another year, one more month. One more day.
    At some point near the end of her battle, Elizabeth had peacefully let go of the fight to stay alive. Instead, she focused all her energy on finding their son, whoever he was, wherever he was. The child they’d been forced to give up. She was so adamant about making contact with him that the day before she died she’d convinced herself she had actually met him, that their firstborn had walked into her hospital room and shared an hourlong conversation with her.
    At first the drug-induced delusion had made him beyond sad. He had failed her, been unable to bring about her final desire. But now he felt differently about it. Perhaps the dream or hallucination was a gift from God, a way of easing Elizabeth’s pain in her dying days.
    John drew a long breath. A commercial came on the station, and he turned the channel to classical music. No more sad songs. Not when every song about love or loss seemed written for Elizabeth and him. He squinted and tried to read a road sign up ahead. Indianapolis-10 Miles. The roads were empty; he’d be at the investigator’s office in less than fifteen minutes.
    42
    His thoughts rolled around some more. The issue with their firstborn son wasn’t as secret as it had been when Elizabeth was alive. Ashley knew now, and every few weeks she asked for an update. What was he doing about the search? Whom had he talked to? What investigator was working the case?
    She had an uncanny sense about the situation. Last night, hours after the call from Tim Brown, Ashley had phoned him. “Dad, I can’t stop thinking about him.”
    Her voice was soft, filled with emotion.
    John took a hopeful guess that maybe she was talking about her husband.
    “Landon?”
    She made an exaggerated sigh. “Dad, you know who.” She paused, and in the background he could hear Cole chattering away, something about having macaroni and cheese for dinner. Ashley lowered her voice. “My oldest brother.”
    Of course he knew. Ashley had started a dozen conversations this way since last fall when she found the letter Elizabeth had placed in an envelope marked Firstborn. Last night, though, he hadn’t wanted to talk about his oldest son. He didn’t want anyone to know he was going to the investigator’s office until he had had time to sort through the information.
    “Honey,” he’d finally told her, “there’s nothing to say, no news. When 1 know something, I’ll call you.”
    He took the First Street exit and wound his way into the newer part of downtown.
    Tim Brown’s office was on the fourth floor of a white cement-block building.
    Snow began falling just as John found an empty meter on the street out front and parked his car.
    Five minutes later he stepped off the elevator and into the investigator’s sparse quarters.
    A woman at the front desk smiled at him. “Mr. Baxter?”
    “Yes.” John reminded himself to breathe. This was it; whatever had become of their son, he was pretty sure he was about to 43
    find out. He stepped forward and brushed a fine layer of snow off his coat. “I have an appointment with Mr. Brown.”
    “Have a seat.” She pointed to a pair of hard-back wood chairs. “Mr. Brown’s expecting you.”
    John did as she asked. The office didn’t have much of a view; the building across the street was newer and twice as tall. Without walking over to the window, that was all a person could see.
    He had expected the investigator to conform to the stereotypical image: slightly distracted and disheveled, lost in a mass of paperwork and flashing telephone lights. But Tim Brown was different. He was a fast-talking, intense professional, organized in his approach and with a keen eye for details. Details John had never even thought about. What sort of mission work had the adoptive parents done and where might they have done it? What church had they worked with? What was the name of the home where Elizabeth had lived during the last half of her