“Where was the store?”
“Virginia. Somewhere near Richmond, I think. My sister lived there then.”
“Was anything inside?”
She hesitated again.
That frightened me.
“What was inside?”
“Nothing important.”
“Please don’t decide what’s important.”
The woman closed her eyes briefly.
“My name is Dana.”
I waited.
“There was an old receipt. A hair tie. Sand in the bottom.”
“The keychain?”
“It was already attached.”
I reached toward it without touching.
Sixteen years had darkened the brass.
But every scratch looked familiar.
“That was Gia’s.”
Dana nodded.
“I assumed it belonged to whoever donated the bag.”
“Gia wouldn’t have donated it.”
The words came out too sharply.
Dana looked at me.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“No,” she said gently. “You knew her when she was seventeen.”
That sentence hurt.
Because she was right.
I knew seventeen-year-old Gia.
I knew how she drank coffee.
What songs she played too loudly.
