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been a ghost, a figure who had appeared in her life and disappeared just as quickly. In the weeks after his departure, Ruth had tried to find him. She had asked questions, followed leads, searched through records. She had called every number he had ever given her, written to every address, visited every place he had ever mentioned. But she had found nothing. It was as if he had never existed, as if he had been a figment of her imagination. She had begun to wonder if she had imagined him, if the love she had felt had been a fantasy. But the child growing inside her was proof that he had been real, that the love had been real, that the loss was real. She had written him letters, dozens of them, pouring out her heart on paper. She had told him about the baby, about her fears and hopes, about the future she had dreamed for them. She had told him that she loved him, that she missed him, that she would wait for him forever if she had to. She had sent the letters to the last address she had for him, but they had been returned, unopened. She had kept his photograph, a worn and faded picture of a man with kind eyes and a gentle smile. It was the only thing she had of him, the only proof that he had existed, and she had clung to it like a lifeline. She had looked at it every night, tracing the lines of his face with her finger, trying to remember the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch. She had named her son after him, in a way. William had been her father s name, but she had given it to her son as a tribute to the man she had loved, the man who had given her the greatest gift of her life. The warning had come in the form of a letter, slipped under her door in the middle of the night. She had found it the next morning, a plain white envelope with no return address, no postmark, nothing to indicate where it had come from. Inside, there had been a single sheet of paper, covered in typewritten words. You need to leave. They re coming for you. They ll take the child. Run and don t look back. Ruth had read the letter over and over, her heart pounding with fear. She had no idea who had sent it or why. She had no idea what it meant, who "they" were, why they would want to take her child. But she had also had no doubt that the warning was real. She had seen the look in James s eyes when he had told her he had to leave, the fear that had lurked beneath the surface. She had sensed that he was running from something, that his secrets had put him in danger. And now, it seemed, that danger had found her. She had packed her bags that very night, taking only what she could carry. She had grabbed William from his bed, wrapping him in a blanket, and fled into the darkness. She had no idea where she was going, no idea what she would do next. All she knew was that she had to run, had to protect her son, had to keep him safe. The years that followed were a blur of motel rooms and bus stations, of stolen moments and constant fear. Ruth had moved from town to town, never staying in one place