Anika met the man near the reception, clipboard still in hand. “You’re Evan’s father?” she asked. “Yes, Daniel Rowe,” he replied quickly, eyes flicking toward the ICU wing. “Divorced, but full custody granted two years ago.” His voice sounded smooth, confident, yet something about his tone and words felt measured, not felt.
He looked legitimate: mid-forties, clean coat, trimmed beard, documents in order. “Evan was playing with friends outside when he disappeared,” he explained smoothly. The receptionist called for Detective Martinez, but Rowe’s eyes never left the ICU doors. “He’s inside there, right? My boy?” His hand trembled.