How she rolled her eyes when I asked where she was going.
But I knew nothing about the woman she might have become.
Dana looked apologetic.
“I’m sorry.”
“What else did you find?”
She stared at the bag.
“A folded piece of paper.”
My fingers went cold.
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember all of it.”
“Yes, you do.”
She looked at me.
“I remember part.”
I waited.
“It said something about not wanting to go home.”
My chest tightened.
“I think the words were, ‘I can’t go back yet.’”
Suddenly, Gia was standing in my doorway again.
Green tank top.
Cream bag.
That stubborn expression.
“Was her name on it?”
Dana looked away.
“You said you’d heard Gia’s name.”
She rubbed the strap nervously.
Then she said, “There was something else.”
“What?”
“The lining tore years ago. When I tried fixing it, I felt something hidden inside.”
