NIKOLINA
EARLIER THAT DAY — SPAIN
Adams.
The name lies between us beside the photograph of a dead man.
My first thought is so horrible that I almost cannot ask the question.
“Was Jack my father?”
“No.” Allison’s face tightens. “He was your uncle.”
I stop calling her Mom inside my head.
The silence that replaces the word feels like losing my balance in the dark.
“Then who are my parents?”
“I’ll tell you.” She pulls out the chair but remains standing behind it. “First, you need to know what I did.”
Allison opens the envelope tied with ribbon. Inside are transport records, photographs, and pages covered in her handwriting.
“I was a neonatal transport nurse,” she says. “Jack hired me through a medical contractor in Mexico. He told me a premature baby might need to be moved during a
