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I can’t dwell on any of this right now. I focus on breathing and on the task ahead.
After a few minutes, I open the passenger door.
He turns off the car and we step out into the midday summer heat.
The porch boards creak under our feet as we approach the front door.
We stand on the stoop while I stare at theOpensign suction-cupped to the window and try to calm the anxiety swirling through my gut.
Atticus pushes the door open, holding it for me to precede him inside.
A bell jingles overhead.
We step into a room that could have been a living room at one time, but it’s been converted into a sales floor. It’s cluttered but clean. Shelves line the back wall, stuffed with small tchotchkes and books and vases. An old magazine stand rests in one corner, full of oldNational Geographics andPost Magazines. Furniture is scattered around the space, dotted with bright white placards announcing the price for each item. In the front, a couple of clothes racks are crowded with plastic-encased suits, dresses, and jackets.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” a masculine voice calls from somewhere deeper inside the house.
I can barely focus on the items around me, my hands shaky with nerves, while emotions battle in my chest: anticipation threaded with anxiety and shaken up with trepidation.
Finally, a man emerges through a back door, striding over to greet us. He’s middle-aged with a full head of gray hair, and thick-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Welcome in. Is there anything I can help you find?”
“Hi, yeah. Are you Jonas Mesa?” I reach into my bag, pulling out the photo of Mom and gripping it in my fingers.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’re looking for someone you might know.” I hand him the picture.
He takes the photo, holds it closer to his face, and inspects it. “She looks younger, but this looks like Dawn Cooper.”
My heart thuds in my chest, reverberating through my ears so loud I’m sure it’s echoing in the room. “You know her?”
His eyes flick to Atticus, gaze guarded. “Who’s asking?”
“She’s my mother.”
His eyes widen. “Are you Finley?”
My stomach drops to my toes. “No. I’m Taylor, Finley is my sister. How did you—” I break off, not sure how to even continue the question.
“Dawn would talk about her sometimes, toward the end.”
A lump lodges in my throat, my mind racing.
It’s her, it’s her, it’s her, combined with the echo of his words over and over. I speak them out loud, needing to know, unable to connect the dots through the roaring in my ears. “The end?”
“She passed away two years ago.”
The knowledge sinks into my skin, the information overload leaving me emotionally whiplashed.
He knew her.
She’s gone. I’m too late. Why did I wait? Why did I bother searching in the first place, only to end up here?
What now?
Atticus slides his hand into mine, his fingers gripping with a comforting pressure.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask.
