Then I continued.
“You and Mom are the house. When it’s safe, he’s going to bring her home to you. I made him promise, and you know how he is about promises.”
At the bottom of the page, she’d drawn a little motorcycle.
It was terrible.
The wheels were uneven, the handlebars pointed in the wrong direction, and the whole thing looked as though it might fall apart if someone breathed on it.
It looked exactly like the one I’d drawn on her cast.
I pressed the letter against my chest and cried until I couldn’t see the page anymore.
On the first Sunday in March, the day Kayla would have turned twenty-five, six motorcycles pulled into Mom’s driveway.
I heard them before I saw them.
One by one, they rolled to a stop along the curb.
Ray climbed out of the Suburban carrying Lily in the same pink car seat.
