“Who were you protecting?”
Kade looked toward the man in the leather jacket.
The man lowered his head.
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I followed Kade’s gaze. I looked at the older man—really looked at him for the first time. The shape of his jaw. The way he stood, weight on his back foot, like he was always ready to retreat.
Then I understood.
“You,” I whispered.
The man didn’t deny it.
“You were protecting him.”
The leather-jacket man looked at me. His eyes were tired. So tired. Like he hadn’t slept properly in years.
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“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said.
My chest felt like it was caving in.
“Tell me what?”
He opened his mouth.
Then Kade moved.
He bolted for the door.
Marcus shouted. Two students dove to block him. Kade was fast—faster than any of them. He made it to the entrance, shoved the door open, and disappeared into the parking lot.
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Everything went still.
Marcus swore under his breath and started after him. “Somebody call—”
“Don’t,” I said.
Marcus stopped.
I was already walking toward the door.
“He’s not running away,” I said. “He’s running toward something.”
The leather-jacket man grabbed my arm. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Wait.”
I turned.
He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “Your father. Daniel.”
The name hit me like a physical blow.
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“You knew him.”
“I worked with him.”
I stared at him. “You worked with him.”
“For eleven years.”
My throat tightened. “Then why—”
“Because I was the one who was supposed to be there that night.”
Silence.
I felt the floor shift under me. Not literally—but something inside my chest tilted, and I had to put my hand on the wall to steady myself.
“What night?”
The man swallowed. “You know what night.”
I did.
I had known since the moment I found the empty kennel and the overturned water bowl and the dog tag lying in the dirt outside the workshop.
My father had told me he was meeting a colleague. He had told me he would be home by nine.
He never came home.
The police found his truck three miles from the workshop. The door was open. His phone was in the cupholder. His wallet was on the seat.
But my father was gone.
For six years, he had been gone.
And now this man—this stranger in a leather jacket—was standing in front of me, telling me he knew why.
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“Your father was working on something,” the man said. “Something that got people’s attention.”
“What kind of something?”
He glanced around the gym. The students were still frozen, watching us. Marcus was standing near the door, his phone in his hand.
“Not here,” the man said.
I shook my head. “No. You’re going to tell me right now.”
He hesitated.
Then he looked at the blue bag still lying on the mat.
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“Your father’s dog,” he said. “He named it Kade.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“The dog. He named it after his partner. His first partner on the force.”
I looked at the bag. At the tag still in the man’s hand from where Kade had dropped it when he ran.
“That’s not a dog tag,” I said slowly.
The man shook his head. “No.”
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“Then what is it?”
He turned the small piece of metal over in his palm. On the front was a name. On the back, a date.
“It’s a badge,” he said. “A police badge. Your father’s.”
The room spun.
I grabbed the wall again.
My father had been a cop. Not for long—he had left the force when I was seven. He had never talked about it. I had never asked.
“His badge,” I repeated.
The man nodded. “He resigned. But he kept it. Gave it to me for safekeeping the week before…”
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He didn’t finish.
Before he disappeared.
I looked at the badge in his hand. Six years. Six years I had been looking for answers. Six years of dead ends and closed doors and people telling me to move on.
And now the answer was sitting in the palm of a man I had never met.
“Why did Kade have it?” I asked.
The man’s face tightened.
“Because I gave it to him.”
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I stared at him.
“You gave my father’s badge to a twenty-something fighter?”
He shook his head. “I gave it to my son.”
The words hit me like ice water.
Your son.
I looked toward the door where Kade had run. Then back at the man.
Kade was his son.
“Your father and I were partners,” the man said. “We worked a case together. A big one. It went wrong.”
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“What kind of case?”
“A trafficking ring. We were undercover. Your father was the inside man. I was his handler.”
I felt like I was falling.
“My father was undercover.”
“For eleven months.”
“And then?”
The man looked away. “And then they found out.”
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The words hung in the air like smoke.
“Who found out?”
“Everyone. Someone on the inside tipped them off.”
My hands were shaking now. I couldn’t stop them.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve been trying to find out for six years.”
I looked at him. At his tired eyes and his worn jacket and the badge in his hand.
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“You’ve been looking for him too.”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His face twisted. “Because I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?”
“Of what I did.”
I waited.
He took a long breath. Then he told me.
The night my father disappeared, he was supposed to meet his handler at the workshop. He had information—names, locations, everything they needed to shut the ring down. He had told the man to come alone.
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The man didn’t come alone.
He brought his son.
