Her irritation softened into concern.
“You said you made this?”
“Yes.”
I pointed toward the stitching.
“There’s a mistake near the bottom.”
She looked.
“That row. I tried to fix it and made it worse.”
The woman turned the bag over.
The mistake was still there.
Then she asked quietly, “What was your daughter’s name?”
My throat tightened.
“Gia.”
Something changed in her face.
Barely.
But after sixteen years of studying strangers for reactions, I noticed.
“You know that name.”
She swallowed.
“I’ve heard it.”
My heart began hammering.
“Where?”
She glanced toward the ocean.
“I think we should sit down.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Tell me where you got the bag.”
She finally nodded toward a nearby bench.
“I bought it.”
“Where?”
“A thrift store.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“Maybe fourteen years ago.”
I had to sit down.
Fourteen years.
That meant the bag had changed hands roughly two years after Gia vanished.
