“How long has your daughter been at this school?”

“Eighteen months or thereabouts.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Well, when we placed here there.” She added quickly, “We tried to visit her early on, but the nuns wouldn’t let us see her. There was always some excuse or another. But they assured us she was doing fine. And then, well, I became pregnant, and that sort of took over my life, and then Salma was born…” Patricia took a deep breath, realizing the hot poker inside her wasn’t nervousness; it was guilt. “Anyway, my husband and I decided if María was happy, perhaps it would be best if we kept our distance. It would be easier for her this way.” She glanced over her shoulder the way María had gone, then returned her attention to the policeman. “What have they done to her? She seemed so…” The word that came to mind was “cold,” but she only shook her head. “How did you know where to bring her, Officer? I didn’t think she knew her address. She could never remember information like that.”

“She didn’t,” the policeman said. “When I asked her where she lived, she said the park. It took a while until I got her to tell me the name of her school—her old elementary school. I took her there. The principal recognized her. He had your address on file.” He shrugged. “But if she belongs in this school—Saint Agatha’s—I’ll take her back there.”

“No,” Patricia said. “I mean, no thank you. Not until I know why she left. Something must have happened to her for her to just leave like that, for her to prefer to live in a park, for God’s sake. And surely the nuns would know she was missing. So why haven’t they contacted me?” She shook her head. “I need to talk to María. I need to talk to my husband. But thank you, Officer Rodriguez, thank you for bringing my daughter home.”

2

Patricia went to her bedroom, but María wasn’t there, sleeping or otherwise.

“María?” she called.

No response.

Patricia ducked her head into the kitchen, then the dining room. She was on her way to the back door, to check the backyard, when she passed the playroom-turned-nursery. María stood next to the crib, holding Salma in her arms, rocking her gently.

“María?” Patricia said, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“I found Angela.”

“That’s not Angela, sweetheart. Her name’s Salma. You have to be very, very careful with her.” She started forward, holding out her arms. “Please give her to me.”

“No.”

Patricia froze. “What do you mean no?”

“She’s mine.”

“She’s your baby sister, yes, but—”

“She’s mine!”

“María, pass me your sister.” She steeled her voice. “Right now.”