Chapter 2 - The Flashlight and the Shadow
“Mr. Anderson?” the older officer called out, stepping up to our table and flashing a brief, respectful nod. “Dispatch said you found your boy?”
“Officer Miller,” Daniel replied, standing up slowly to place his body between the cop and our booth, shielding me from direct view. “Yes, he’s right here safe. We just stepped inside to warm up.”
Officer Miller glanced down, his eyes catching sight of the edge of my oversized jacket peeking out from behind Daniel’s shoulder. He frowned, stepping to the side to get a better look at me.
“And who’s this?” the officer asked, pulling a pen from his breast pocket. “Was she with him?”
“She’s the one who kept him calm while I was searching the north pavilion,” Daniel answered smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument, though a muscle ticked sharply in his jaw. “She helped him.”
The officer stepped closer, his badge glinting under the harsh overhead lights of the café. He looked at my unwashed face, my matted hair, and the way I shrank back against the cracked leather of the booth. Years of working downtown Portland streets had taught cops to recognize the invisible ghosts of the city—the runaways, the abandoned, the kids who slipped through the cracks of a broken system.
“Right,” Officer Miller said, his voice softening into a practiced, weary gentleness. “Hey there, kiddo. What’s your name? Where do you live? Do you have an address or a phone number we can call?”
Panic surged through my veins, hot and blinding.
I didn't answer. I pressed my back so hard against the booth cushion I thought I might push right through the wood.
“She doesn't want to talk about it right now, Officer,” Daniel intervened, stepping forward with an absolute, unyielding authority. He pulled a heavy leather wallet from his back pocket, extracted a black card, and handed it directly to the cop. “My name is Daniel Anderson. I’m taking full responsibility for her tonight. I want my private security and legal team to handle any institutional notifications.”
Officer Miller looked at the black card, then up at Daniel’s face. Recognition flickered in the cop's eyes—the kind of recognition reserved for multi-millionaires whose names graced the front pages of the local business journals and philanthropists who funded the city's police foundations.
“Mr. Anderson, protocol dictates that any unhoused minor found wandering downtown after dark must be logged and taken to—”
“Protocol can wait forty-eight hours while I verify her situation privately,” Daniel interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet coldness that brooked zero debate. “She is sitting with my son. She is freezing, she is starving, and she is not going into a municipal holding system tonight. Call your captain if you have an issue with that.”
The officer hesitated, torn between standard municipal procedure and the terrifying political weight of a man like Daniel Anderson.
While they argued, my survival instincts—honed by three months of running from social services and shelter wardens—took over.
May you like
While Daniel’s back was turned, I slid off the leather booth, dropped silently to the floor behind the table, and crawled beneath the gap between the counter and the door.
“Emma?” Josh called out, his small voice cutting through the adult conversation. “Where are you going?”
