The elevator doors slide open to Ruth and—my eyes widen—Mom. I choke back a sob, try to understand why the sight of her eases the tension that needles my back.

Tate clears his throat. “I need to take Maree home.” His eyes darken. “Ruth, Alice, I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

When he and the girl leave, I feel their absence in the tears that well in my eyes. “Mom?” I say. “Ruth?” My muscles shake, threaten to take me down like a tree. They lead me upstairs to my apartment and sit on either side of me on the couch.

“What happened?” I ask, my teeth still chattering from a cold that lingers beneath my skin. I must have been outside. From the kitchen comes the whistle of a kettle. Ruth rises from the couch, comes back with a mug of tea. I sip it, grateful for the warmth it spreads.

“Maree is Tate’s daughter,” Ruth says. “They both live in Whittier, and you are very close to them.”

The information is new, yet I don’t feel totally surprised by it. “Okay.”

“Maree thought she found out some upsetting information about her mother and ran away.”

My brain connects two dots. “Maria?”

Mom squeezes my hand. “Yes, but Maree doesn’t know, and she got it all wrong.”

Ruth takes the mug of tea from my hands and sets it on the table. It feels like a protective gesture, and I can’t meet her eyes because I think they are about to tell me something, and I’m suddenly nervous. What doesn’t the girl know? I wrap my arms across myself. “What did she get wrong?”

Ruth and Mom exchange looks, and then Ruth inhales. “Maree is your daughter, Claire.”

At first I don’t respond, can’t respond, because my face has hardened to stone, and what she says doesn’t connect any dots that make sense. I ball my hands into fists. “Why would you say that, Ruth?” My voice is high-pitched, strained. “My baby died. You know that.”

Mom touches my arm, squeezes gently. “No, honey. Your baby lived, and she’s Maree.”