Almost a year after my teenage son disappeared, I saw a homeless man walk into a café wearing my son’s jacket — the one I had patched myself. When he said a boy gave it to him, I followed him to an abandoned house. What I discovered there changed everything I thought I knew about my son’s disappearance.

Maya had come by our house a few times before. Quiet girl. Polite, almost cautiously so.

In the footage, they exited the gate and headed toward the bus stop. They boarded a city bus together.

Then they disappeared from view.

“I need to talk to Maya,” I said to the principal. “Is that possible?”

“Maya isn’t enrolled here anymore.” She pointed at the screen. “She transferred suddenly. That was her last day.”

I drove straight to Maya’s house.

A man answered the door.

“Can I speak with Maya, please? She was with my son the day he disappeared. I need to know if he mentioned anything to her.”

The man studied me silently for a moment. Then something in his expression hardened.

“Maya isn’t here. She’s staying with her grandparents for a while.” He started closing the door, then paused. “I’ll ask her if she knows anything.”

I stood there uncertainly, a feeling deep in my gut telling me I should push further — but I didn’t know how.

Then the door closed.