I’d been to libraries, hospitals, and adoption agencies, in cities all over the country. I’d knocked on doors, plastered up signs, created web pages, and made numerous phone calls. Finally I had an address: 1224 Harmony Waye Ct.

I’d sat outside in my van watching for days. I’d seen her with her mother’s angelic face and long blonde curls. I’d heard her name, Devon. The house was nice, in a decent suburb, and the family looked middle class, normal, content.

But I was sent here to find her. I wouldn’t be paid until her biological father had photographic evidence of her existence. As she walked down the street with her guardian, I followed.

Her guardian was young, not more than a child herself, and she carried a camera. As I watched, she entertained the child’s wishes to photograph everything. It would be too easy to just run up and grab her, easier still to lure her away with the promise of a puppy.

But my assignment was to convince the family to part with her calmly. If not, well, I’d call for my orders.