Biker Found His Missing Daughter After 31 Years But She Was Arresting Him

She tensed, hand moving to her weapon. “Sir, off the bike. Now.”

I climbed off, my sixty-eight-year-old knees protesting. She was thirty-three now. A cop.

Amy had always hated that I rode with a club, said it was dangerous. The irony that our daughter became law enforcement wasn’t lost on me.

“I smell alcohol,” she said.

“I haven’t been drinking.”

“I’m going to need you to perform a field sobriety test.”

I knew she didn’t really smell alcohol. I’d been sober for fifteen years. But something in my reaction had spooked her, made her suspicious.

I didn’t blame her. I probably looked like every unstable old biker she’d ever dealt with—staring too hard, hands shaking, acting strange.

As she ran me through the tests, I studied her hands. She had my mother’s long fingers. Piano player fingers, Mom used to call them, though none of us ever learned.

On her right hand, a small tattoo peeked out from under her sleeve. Chinese characters. Her adoptive father’s influence, probably.

“Mr. McAllister, I’m placing you under arrest for suspected DUI.”

Continue reading…

Continue READING