“Appreciate it.” Whize gave her another wide smile that she bashfully returned.
Then we were alone.
My hands stayed curled tight as Whize carefully slit the evidence tape and lifted the lid. My heart thudded harder with every inch.
“Anything specific you’re hoping to find?” he asked gently, glancing at me.
I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure I could. Instead, I stared down into the cardboard, watching as Whize slowly began to remove the contents one plastic bag at a time.
Whize laid out the items.
First, a small set of keys—rusted and ordinary, held together by a generic metal ring. Then, a pair of faded jeans and a wrinkled blouse, sealed in plastic. A pair of worn-out flats followed, the soles cracked, one heel slightly more worn than the other.
None of it meant anything to me. I recognized nothing.
My pulse pounded in my ears, louder with each item. I’d braced myself to feel something—to be hit by a familiarity or tugged into some buried memory. I knew it had been nearly thirty years, but some part of me believed recognition would come like a flash of lightning. That something in the box would stir the girl I used to be.
It was all…empty.
Then, he reached for the final bag.
Inside was a bracelet. My breath caught as he set it on the table in front of me.
It was the same one from the photo—the one I’d been sure I recognized. My bracelet. The one I made when I was a kid, for a mother I barely remembered.
I leaned forward, stomach pitching.
The instant I saw it up close, I knew.
It wasn’t mine.
The cord wasn’t the right color. In the photo, it had seemed dark enough—stained maybe. In the light, it wasn’t the soft woven thread I’d braided long ago. This was more of a thin, braided leather cord.
The charm wasn’t right either. It wasn’t a sparrow with a bent wing.
It wasn’t even a damn bird.
What I thought had been a wing was a curved piece of silver shaped like a crescent moon. Definitely not the little bird I’d gotten from the prize machine when I was seven.
I stared at it, unable to blink, the weight of disappointment pressing hard on my chest.
No, it wasn’t just disappointment—it was grief for a hope I hadn’t realized I’d been clinging to.
My throat burned. My fingers curled into the table edge.
“It’s not her,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the final word. “It’s not my mom.”
29
Fox
Irusheddownthefrontstaircase, buckling my belt as I went. Skye hadn’t been next to me when I woke up, and she wasn’t answering my texts.
It was morning, but panic bubbled in my chest. I had no idea where she would be.
I stilled on the bottom step, my eye catching on my mother. She sat in the living room, reading a book and sipping her coffee. Heat washed over my face as I glanced around the foyer and into the kitchen, listening and looking for any sign of Skye.
“Good morning.” Mom set her coffee on the small table next to her chair. She casually turned the page of her book.
