AMELIA'S POV
The shop should be closed by now. Mrs. Hae is running a cloth over her pressing machine, working it into corners that probably haven't been touched in decades. But I keep thinking about what she said this morning. About her granddaughter crying over test results that don't match.
The door chime sounds thin in the empty shop. Mrs. Hae looks up, surprised.
"Your jacket—"
"I know. Tomorrow." I step past the hanging clothes - they sway slightly, plastic rustling. "Mrs. Hae, your granddaughter. Hyun-Ae. She works for Hartwell Testing Solutions."
Mrs. Hae's hands still on the cleaning rag. The air smells like starch and that chemical tang of dry cleaning fluid. Makes my eyes water.
"She good girl."
"I'm sure she is. But you said she's been upset about work. About numbers not
