The hospital called and said a little boy had listed me as his emergency contact. I laughed nervously and said, “That’s impossible. I’m 32, single, and I don’t have a son.”

I stayed in the chair beside him, answering questions from nurses, police, and a calm child services worker named Patrice Hall.

At 7:20 a.m., Mark Vance arrived. I recognized him instantly, before anyone spoke his name. He was older, heavier, dressed like a man trying to look trustworthy: clean jacket, polished shoes, worried expression. But his eyes continue reading …