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Her daughter even more.
And I don't know if I can stand in front of that little girl knowing her father called me for help and I wasn't there.
The front door opens.
Cold morning air rolls through the tavern.
“Little early, isn't it?” Doc calls without looking up. “Kitchen doesn't open until—”
The coffee pot slips from his hand.
It doesn't fall.
He catches it against the counter.
But the look on his face has me out of my chair before I even turn around.
A woman stands inside the doorway.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. Her jeans are dirty. There's a tear in the sleeve of her sweatshirt and dried blood along one forearm.
A backpack hangs from one shoulder.
A little girl stands beside her, clutching a stuffed rabbit against her chest.
For one second, my brain refuses to make sense of what my eyes are seeing.
Then the woman looks at me.
Everything inside me stops.
Claire.
She looks older.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
But she's still Claire.
The little girl beside her isn't the toddler I remember.
She's six now.
Maybe seven.
Nathan’s daughter.
Nathan’s eyes.
Jesus Christ.
“Claire?”
Her lips part.
She stares at me like she's seeing a ghost.
