Officer Sarah Chen had pulled
me over for a broken taillight on Highway 49
, but when she walked up and
I saw her face, I couldn’t breathe.
She had my mother’s eyes, my nose,
and the same birthmark b
elow her left ear shaped like a crescent moon.
The birthmark I used to kiss goodnight
when she was two years old,
before her mother took her and vanished.
“License and registration,”
she said, professional and cold.
My hands shook as I handed them over.
Robert “Ghost” McAllister.
She didn’t recognize the name—
Amy had probably changed it.
But I recognized everything about her.
