The drive across town felt endless.
The youth center sat on a quiet street, plain and easy to miss.
I parked and went inside.
The building felt warm. Voices echoed faintly down the hall.
A woman sat at the front desk sorting papers. She looked up.
“Hello, how can I help?”
“I’m looking for someone who worked here… a long time ago. Early 90s.”
She frowned. “Let me find someone.”
A minute later, she returned with an older woman with gray hair.
“What’s your sister’s name?” she asked.
“Adele.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I remember her,” she said. “She came here a few mornings before school. Didn’t stay long. Just talked.”
“About what?”
The woman studied me carefully.
“This might be hard to hear. But you came for answers. Adele talked about leaving home.”
The words landed heavily.
“She didn’t feel like she belonged anymore,” the woman continued. “At first, I thought it was normal teenage frustration. But then she told me what she had overheard.”
My mind flashed to the diary.
“She heard your parents arguing,” the woman said. “Your father told your mother he was tired of raising her because she wasn’t his child—she was adopted.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Adele didn’t understand,” she went on. “She felt like her whole life was a lie. She was scared—but also determined. She kept saying she needed space. Time to think.”
“She came here one last time, didn’t she?”
The woman nodded.
“She had a small bag. She told me she’d thrown it out her window and picked it up from the backyard that morning. She said she was ready to leave.”
A chill ran through me.
“I told her we could figure things out properly—that she didn’t have to rush. But she said she needed to do something first. She asked to use the phone.”
“What happened next?”
“She made a call. Short. I only caught the name ‘Heather.’ But I remember her voice. She sounded like she had made a decision—and was trying to be brave.”
“What did she do after?”
“She left.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. She just walked out.”
Not taken.
Not lost.
She walked away.
“Anything else?” I asked.
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