Her breath stopped.
She knew those stitches.
She had sewn them herself at a kitchen table in a safe house in Virginia four years ago while a four-year-old watched and asked why.
“So you can always find them,” Lauren had told her. “So they’re always yours.”
The lobby went far away.
Rain on glass.
Laughter.
All of it turned to static.
“Ma’am?”
The girl’s voice was barely audible.
“Mommy said to find a nurse in blue who doesn’t laugh.”
Lauren swallowed.
Her voice came out soft.
“Is that right?”
“She said you’d know what the gloves mean.”
Behind the girl, the front doors slid open.
Cold wind and rain blew across the floor.
Two men walked in.
Dark suits, dark ties, sunglasses at night in a storm.
They did not stop at the desk.
They did not sign in.
They stood by the glass with their hands folded in front of them, and they looked at the girl.
