Chapter 2: Four Words in Her Handwriting
My husband had caught up to me by then.
I felt his hand on my back, but I couldn't turn around.
"Who?" I whispered.
"Who can't know I'm here?"
The woman's eyes moved past me again — quick, careful.
Like she was checking.
"Keep your voice down," she said.
"Please."
"That cover-up belonged to my daughter.
She went missing eight years ago.
She was sixteen years old."
Something shifted in the woman's face.
Not surprise.
Something older than surprise.
"I know," she said.
Those two words hit me like a wall.
My husband stepped forward.
"You need to tell us what you know.
Right now."
The woman shook her head slowly.
"Not here.
Not like this." She glanced over her shoulder a second time.
"If she sees you before you understand the situation, she'll run.
And this time you won't find her."
"This time?" My voice cracked.
"What does that mean — this time?"
She didn't answer.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Slid it into my hand without looking down.
"Tonight.
That address.
Come alone."
Then she walked away — back toward the boardwalk, back toward the crowd — and I stood there holding a folded note I was too afraid to open.
My husband said my name twice before I heard him.
I opened the note.
There was an address.
And below it, four words written in handwriting I hadn't seen in eight years.
May you like
*Mom.
Please be careful.*
