“Tell her everything,” Mac said quietly. “Exactly like she asked. No softening.”
Cloe sat with the phone in both hands, Naomi’s second message still glowing on the screen. Don’t tell me gently. I’ve had gentle before. Just tell me the truth, whatever it is.
She thought about the woman in the photo on the bed and breakfast website. Grey hair, arms crossed, a smile that had learned not to expect too much. A woman who had built a life out of giving other people somewhere to land, while nobody had ever come back to tell her she had a place to land too.
Cloe typed slowly, choosing every word.
My name is Cloe Harlow. I’m married to Mac Harlow, whose mother is Eleanor. Eleanor’s father took a daughter with him when he left the country, decades ago. We believe that daughter was you.
We found
