Chapter 9: The Taste of Truth

The pork shoulder Caleb cooked was so tender it was almost unreal—like jelly, you could scoop it up with a spoon. The most astonishing part was that it wasn’t just a shoulder, but a whole pork face—a specialty dish that wowed even the skeptics.

People snapped photos, posting them on Facebook and Yelp with hashtags like #BestBBQInTown and #CalebsSecretRecipe. The dish was both rustic and refined, a showstopper at every event.

When served, the pork lay whole in the dish, festive in color. The meat and skin kept their shape, but were melt-in-your-mouth tender. Forks were useless—you needed a spoon. The smoky-sweet sauce clung to lips and tongue, the flavor unforgettable.

It was the kind of meal that made strangers into friends, the kind you remembered long after the last bite.

It was fall-apart tender but held its shape, rich and fragrant but never greasy.

Caleb always claimed the secret was in the sauce—a blend of molasses, apple cider vinegar, and a dash of something he’d never reveal.

Every part of the pork had its own flavor: the ears were tender and crisp, the tongue soft and springy, the cheeks bouncy, the meat delicate as custard. The best part was the skin—sticky and smooth.

Able to cook such a pork shoulder at sixteen?

I couldn’t help but scoff inwardly, a shiver running down my spine.

This wasn’t selective amnesia. This wasn’t amnesia at all.

And when Caleb was found, there was no way he was just sixteen.

Because Frank Miller was a chef—renowned for his pork shoulder, a skill honed in kitchens, not learned overnight.

Across from the clerk’s office, a new shop opened, firecrackers popping, the air still thick with the scent of New Year’s. In that lingering smoke, I flipped through the Jensen barbecue shop’s ledgers—carefully kept records, each entry neat and precise.

You could read the rhythm of their lives in those pages—pork bought, sauce made, holidays marked with stars.

Twenty ledgers, each listing the same rituals: “Seventh, buy pork shoulder; fifteenth, boil barbecue sauce; Memorial Day, sell green cupcakes.”

“He really never left town?” I asked, watching Natalie for any flicker of doubt.

She shook her head, certain as sunrise.