“License and registration,” she said, crisp and detached. His hands shook as he passed the papers over. Robert McAllister. Most people just called him Ghost.
She didn’t react. Amy must have changed their names. But he recognized everything: the way she shifted her weight, the scar on her brow from a tricycle fall, the tuck of hair behind her ear when focused.
“Mr. McAllister,” she said. “Please step off the bike.” She didn’t know she was arresting her father — the man who’d spent thirty-one years searching for her face in every crowd.
Years turned into decades. He’d held her as a baby, whispering promises he couldn’t keep. Her mother was young and scared, he a mechanic trying to make something of life. Then one night, she was gone. And now, here she was — grown, steady, a badge on her chest. Everything he’d failed at, she’d become.
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