permanent.
Now a dental office had called and told me the absence needed a ride home.
I drove too fast.
Then too slowly.
Then pulled into the Willowcrest parking lot and sat with both hands on the steering wheel.
What if it was a mistake?
What if somebody had stolen Lily’s identity?
What if grief had finally broken something in me?
I walked inside.
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and peppermint.
A television played silently in one corner.
Two people sat near the front desk.
Then a woman stood from a chair beside the window.
I stopped.
She was older.
Of course she was.
So was I.
Her hair was shorter than Lily had ever worn it.
A pale scar curved along the left side of her jaw.
She was thinner.
Different clothes.
Different posture.
But her eyes—
My eyes—
were staring directly at me.
She twisted a silver ring around one finger.
Lily had done that with bracelets as a teenager whenever she was nervous.
“Hi,” she said.
I nearly laughed from shock.
“Hi?”
Her mouth tightened.
