PROLOGUE
Vietnam, 1978
THEY HAVE BEEN WAITING ALL NIGHT BY THE RIVER, THE DARKwater smooth as glass. They carry nothing but a bundle filled with food and canteens of fresh water all tied in a square piece of cloth. A single tin pot. A sack of lemons and a box of sugar.
The boat is late. The children are hungry. The men and women who are with them are standing still as trees.
The moon cuts through the darkness like a scythe. As they wait, looking for the boat they were promised, the tide inches closer to their silhouettes. They walk backward, retreating into the marsh, tall spears of reeds behind them. The cicadas loud in the wet grass.
It is the youngest boy who first sees the flash of light. A small beacon from a torch pulsating atop the head of the fisherman.
They walk into the river. Treading past the water hyacinth, a mass of green leaves and singular pink flowers. First, ankle-deep. Then, knee-deep. Finally, waist-deep. The children are afraid. Seaweed wraps around their legs, pulling them down. Still, they inch toward the boat. The weight of the river slowing them with each step until there is no sand or silt beneath their feet.
They reach their arms up toward the boat. The current flows against them. In the shadow of the ship’s hull, they see a woman extending her hand. A rope is thrown out to reach them, curling first on the surface of the water before sinking down.
PART I
CHAPTER 1Long Island, 1979
GRACEGOLDEN WOULD NEVER KNOW WHY, ON THAT SUNNYafternoon in late May, she had chosen to walk down Gypsum Street after Mass instead of her usual route to the grocery store. Maple Avenue had always been the fastest way from Saint Bartholomew’s to Kepler’s Market.
Her husband, Tom, believed Grace picked Gypsum Street because the cherry blossoms there were at their peak. That was the thing about his wife, he explained. She’d always go out of her way to encounter something beautiful. But neither of them could have anticipated on that fine spring day, as Grace’s heels rhythmically struck the sidewalk, her shopping list tucked inside her leather purse, that she would notice a little boy curled up against the side of a building. Sleeping on the hard cement, his body was tucked so tightly, he reminded Grace of a small whelk nestled into its shell.
She stopped and hovered over him. Then she leaned down to nudge him.
“Are you lost, love?” The lilt of her Irish accent, still detectable after years of living in New York, floated through the air. “Let me help you up,” she offered her hand.
But the boy remained fixed in a fetal position, his arms locked even tighter around himself and his feet inched closer to his bottom. One of his tennis shoes had a hole in its rubber sole. The other was missing its laces.
She still could not see his face, only the tiny edge of his ear and the shock of straight black hair.
“Please.”
His head rose slightly, revealing his dark eyes, heart-shaped lips, and small nose.
It was the face of a child, frightened and alone.
CHAPTER 2
“I’MGRACE.” SHE OFFERED HER NAME, HOPING HE’D ALSO SHAREhis. But he remained silent. His body fixed to the sidewalk, still as a stone.
She unlatched the clasp of her handbag and pulled out a candy wrapped in shiny silver foil.
He studied her, then cautiously accepted the sweet. Grace took another piece from her purse and unwrapped it, placing the small chocolate in her mouth.
She looked around to see if she could spot anyone searching for a lost child or if a policeman was patrolling nearby. But Grace saw no one.
“Are you lost? Why don’t you come with me,” she said as she reached her hand out and guided the boy up from the ground.
He found his footing and now stood before Grace, but his eyes still avoided hers. His pants were too short, exposing his thin ankles, and the Incredible Hulk decal on his T-shirt was peeling. But Grace’s hand remained open, and eventually his fingers found their way into her own.
The warm touch of a child’s hand was instantly familiar to her. But through his grasp, she also felt his fear. The skin was clammy. The fingers were slippery.
He walked beside her, his hand fidgeting against her own. Every few minutes, she turned to catch a glimpse of him sideways: the bony limbs, the long lashes, the angular eyes. She estimated he might be around ten years old, close to the age of her younger daughter, Molly.
She did not stop at Kepler’s to pick up the eggs and milk and the various other provisions on her shopping list. Instead, she gripped his hand tighter, not even noticing the cherry blossom petals falling on their shoulders and hair.
A few blocks from home, she saw Adele Flynn walking toward her car.
