Chapter 3: The Boy with No Past

Strictly speaking, this ID card reissue was for Caleb Jensen.

I double-checked the paperwork—crisp, official forms that usually ran like clockwork. But today, my fingers felt clumsy, my pen too heavy, anxiety making my signature shaky.

I glanced at their names and, perhaps a little too nosily, asked, “Are you two husband and wife? Your names sound like siblings. One is Caleb, the other is Natalie?”

It was a small-town habit—always tracing family trees, connecting names, sometimes landing you in awkward territory.

“He was brought into our family, so my dad changed his name. In our family, he should have the ‘Jensen’ name.”

Natalie’s voice softened, nostalgia and pride flickering across her face as she spoke of her father.

“So this name was changed later? What was his original name?”

The suspect’s name was Frank Miller.

The name settled over the room, heavy as a church bell tolling at noon.

“Don’t know. When my dad picked him up, he was nearly dead, head busted up so bad he couldn’t remember anything. Not even his own name.”

Her words sounded practiced, like a family legend told at every neighborhood barbecue, but there was a note of real pain beneath the surface.