PART 2

Owen selected a quiet little diner in Atlanta, well away from the elegant places where Harold was often recognized. He rose courteously the moment I arrived and waited until the server stepped away before speaking.

“I owe you an apology for how dramatic I was last night,” Owen said softly. “I simply couldn’t remain silent while everyone treated you so badly.”

“How do you know me?” I asked plainly.

Owen inhaled deeply before replying.

“Thirty years ago, you taught at an elementary school in Ohio,” Owen said. “One rainy afternoon, you found a frightened teenage girl sitting outside the main bus station.”

The memory rushed back immediately, bringing with it the picture of a drenched young girl clutching a torn backpack, her eyes filled with fear.

“Her name was Naomi,” I murmured quietly.

Owen nodded with a gentle smile.

“That was Naomi Parsons, my younger sister,” Owen said. “She had escaped a terrible home environment and intended to board the first bus leaving town, but you bought her a hot meal, contacted a social worker, and stayed beside her until morning.”

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