I set my coffee down so fast, it sloshed across the floorboards. « Oh my God. »
The baby moved one hand free. I crouched, touched her cheek with two fingers, then slid my hand to her chest just to feel it rise.
I knew that jacket.
She was warm and quiet.
« Okay, » I whispered, though I was speaking more to myself than to her. « Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. »
I lifted the basket and carried her inside.
***
Five years earlier, my daughter had vanished at sixteen.
One minute, she was slamming cabinets because her father, Paul, had forbidden her from seeing a boy named Andy, and the next, she was gone so completely, it felt like the world had swallowed her.
The police searched. Neighbors helped. My daughter’s photo sat in the grocery store window, the gas station, and every church bulletin board in town.
