Page 8 of The Advocate’s Ultimatum

JP stared at the screen. Multiple entities and places came up, including Dorothy Bay Mercer, an author of romantic thriller fiction, Mercer Bay Loop, a scenic coastal hiking trail in New Zealand, a Hampton ceiling fan, and a vacation rental in Mercer, Wisconsin.

He tried again with a different spelling and a larger geographic range, using broader search parameters, including a wider age range, and limiting it to people. He found people with the alternative spelling, but no one close to her age.

JP let out a slow breath. “Well,” he muttered. “That’s interesting.”

He opened the arrest report Sabre had sent and studied the photograph again.

The girl looked young. She claimed she was fifteen, but she looked more like thirteen. Her dark hair looked like it had been cut unevenly at some point. Her face was thin, and she had eyes that seemed older than the rest of her. She didn’t look scared, but rather alert, like she had spent most of her life watching for trouble.

JP had seen that look before from kids who had learned early that adults weren’t always safe.

He ran another search, this time focusing on school databases. Every kid left a trail eventually, but the results were the same. No enrollment records, no transfers, no standardized test reports, nothing.

JP tapped his fingers against the desk. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s try something else.”

He pulled up the county birth registry. He found a Bay Mercer born in 1984, but nothing close to her age.

JP frowned. That wasn’t just unusual. It was almost impossible. Even kids who lived off the grid eventually showed up somewhere, in hospital records, vaccination reports, school enrollment, something.

But this girl had no footprint at all, which meant one of three things. Either she had spent her entire life outside the system, someone had deliberately scrubbed all traces, or, the most likely, she wasn’t using her real name.

JP turned back to the arrest report. A short note at the bottom listed the information Bay had given officers after her arrest. Just her name and age, but no address, no parent, and no emergency contact.

JP squinted at the form. The officer had written a brief comment in the margin. Subject claims to live with guardian but refuses to provide name.

“A guardian,” JP muttered. Runaways didn’t usually describe the adults in their lives that way. He flipped back to the report. It said she was fifteen. If that was true, she should have fifteen years of paperwork somewhere.

He opened the state birth registry this time and ran the name again with different variations. A birth certificate filled his screen, filed under Lila Bay Mercer, issued in San Bernardino County. The mother was listed as Jennifer Mercer, deceased, and the father was unknown.

JP scanned the record. Then he frowned and scrolled back to the top.

The girl was listed as born thirteen years ago. But the certificate itself had been filed only three years earlier.

JP stared at the screen. Delayed birth certificates happened sometimes, usually in cases involving immigration or lost records. But those filings almost always came with supporting documentation, such as hospital reports, midwife records, and affidavits from parents.

JP clicked through the supporting file, a single notarized statement. No hospital listed, no doctor, no secondary verification. His eyes settled on the bottom of the affidavit. The informant was Darren Roman, family friend. He ran the name through the state databases. He got a hit on a California driver’s license issued six years earlier with a Riverside address. He couldn’t find any employment records or tax filings for Roman, and the driver’s license had expired two years ago and had never been renewed.

“Well,” JP said under his breath. “That’s not good.”

He ran another search using the mother listed on the certificate. The results came back empty again. No tax filings, no property records, no voter registration. Nothing.

JP glanced back at the girl’s booking photo. Someone had gone to the trouble of creating an identity for her. But they hadn’t bothered to build the life that usually came with it. So, the name Sabre had been given was probably never meant to survive serious scrutiny.

JP picked up the phone and dialed Sabre.

She answered almost immediately. “Tell me you found something.”

“A birth certificate for Lila Bay Mercer.”

“A lot of people go by their middle name. So, that sounds promising.”

“It would be,” JP said. “If the birth certificate hadn’t been created only three years ago.”

“That’s odd. Either my client appeared out of thin air when she was twelve,” Sabre said. “Or the name she gave the police isn’t the one she was born with.”

“Exactly. And someone went to a lot of trouble to make this name look real.”

“But not enough effort to make it convincing.” Sabre exhaled slowly. “So, what now?”