“Is there anything else you can tell me? Any details about her that you noticed? I have to ask.”

“Yes, of course,” Edith Moore said. “Let me think . . . well—there was something she did, and I don’t know if it helps . . .”

“What?” Nic asked, suddenly desperate to have this be real. “What did she do?”

“When she waved at the truck—she used both arms, over her head, crossing back and forth. She had her purse in one of her hands, so it was odd, you know? That she didn’t just wave at the truck with one hand. I remember thinking that it was strange.”

Nic closed her eyes and saw her mother from years ago. At a cross country meet, standing at the finish line. Waving just like that—two arms overhead. She did it at Evan’s games too. And when she was trying to get their attention at a pickup, or when they ignored her walking through the kitchen and she asked them how their day was.

They had all poked fun at her. And yet, they had all found it endearing.

Years ago—when there was still room for endearment.

“What about the purse?” Nic asked.

“It was orange. Very bright—oh, and there were letters on it. NEA. At the time, I assumed it was a monogram, but after I read about your mother and saw her name, I thought maybe it was the name of the designer.”

“They’re our names,” Nic said. “The names of her children.”

Her mother had ordered the purse herself. No one else would have been that morbid. And that’s exactly what it was. A bright, bold, daily reminder that she had three children. Nicole. Evan. Annie. Three children, not two. And that one was dead. The giant gold “A” to punch her in the gut as she went about her day. That purse followed her everywhere.

Nic opened her eyes and let the truth find her.

This is real. This woman saw my mother.

“Why don’t you come and meet me?” Edith Moore asked. “I can show you exactly where she was when the truck picked her up.”

The thought was unbearable. Hastings . . .

“Maybe you can meet with the local police,” Nic offered.

But the woman insisted. “I don’t think that will go anywhere now, given what they believe.”

Silence then. Nic closed her eyes and tried to chase away the sickness in her gut.

Hastings . . .

“The thing is,” the woman said next, “no one is going to care about that poor woman on the road as much as her family.”

Ten minutes later, Nic was throwing clothes in a duffel bag. Jeans, shirts, sweaters, sneakers. What else? Pajamas, underwear.

She went to the bathroom for her toothbrush, shampoo.

A voice crept in, whispering, Is this just more running away?

The grief counselor had her theories about Nic’s behavior.