Elaine hesitated.
“It said, ‘I know you’re still wearing the sun.'”
I felt cold all over.
The sun.
The tiny yellow sun my mother had stitched into Nora’s cover-up.
“How could he know about that?”
“We don’t know.”
Michael stood.
“We need to get Nora out of here.”
Elaine grabbed his arm.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone really is watching her, running inside and announcing yourselves could put her in danger.”
Michael looked furious.
“She’s our daughter.”
“And she’s survived eight years without you.”
That sentence hurt.
But Elaine continued.
“I’m not saying you should leave her. I’m saying you need to understand what you’re walking into.”
I looked toward the window.
Nora was still working.
She suddenly turned toward the entrance.
For one terrible second, I thought she had seen me.
I lowered my head.
When I looked again, she was talking to another employee.
“Does she know her real name is in the missing-person database?” I asked.
