its pins…
The hazel eyes. The stubborn tilt of her chin. And running along her left temple, half-hidden by her dark bangs, a pale, jagged silver line—the scar from a window frame shattered by concussive blast pressure.
Where did you get this locket? Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper. It held none of the terrifying weight that made city councilmen sweat. It sounded like an orphaned boy standing in the rain.
The woman’s voice shook. It belongs to me. It’s the only thing I had when the fisherman pulled me out of the bay in Marshfield.
Vincent stepped closer. One step. Two.
She didn’t run. She stood her ground, trembling, one hand pressed to Ellie’s coat.
They told me my family was dead, she whispered, tears finally breaking over her lashes and cutting clean paths down her dusty cheeks. The social workers… they called me Sarah because I couldn’t remember
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