Ortiz noticed that Grace kept glancing at the photograph.
"Is that you?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Before everything happened."
"How old were you?"
"Six."
She sat down, folding her hands in her lap.
"My mother used to tell me that we were going somewhere safe. She said we were going to stay with people who could help us until she found a permanent place."
"What do you remember about the move?"
Grace stared at the carpet.
"Not much at first. I remember a car. I remember my brother crying because he wanted his toy truck. I remember my mother telling him that everything would be okay."
She swallowed.
"But I remember the second place."
"What do you remember about it?"
"It had a green door. There was a fence around the back. We weren't allowed to leave without permission."
Ortiz exchanged a brief glance with his colleague.
"How long were you there?"
"I don't know. Months, maybe. Time was strange."
"Was your mother with you?"
"At first."
Grace looked toward the photograph.
"Then one morning she wasn't."
Ortiz waited.
"Someone told us she had gone to another place. They said she needed to get better before she could come back."
"Did you believe them?"
"I was six."
Her answer was quiet, but it carried more weight than anger.
"I believed whatever adults told me because I didn't have another choice."
She stood and walked to the bookshelf.
From a drawer beneath it, she removed a small envelope.
"My brother found this years ago. He gave it to me before he moved away."
Inside was a folded letter written in a woman's handwriting.
Grace placed it on the table.
"I think it's from my mother."
Ortiz did not touch it immediately.
"Would you be comfortable letting us examine it?"
Grace nodded.
The letter was short.
It contained no explanation of where Rebecca had gone. It contained no accusations. It was simply a message addressed to her children.
Michael and Grace,
If you ever read this, I want you to know that I did not leave because I stopped loving you. I have tried to find a way back to you every day. If someone tells you that I chose to disappear, please do not believe them.
I am your mother. I love you both. I am still trying.
At the bottom was a date.
And beneath the date, one final sentence:
Ask for Evelyn. She knows I wanted to come home.
Grace covered her mouth.
For a long moment, the only sound in the apartment was the ticking of a small clock.
Then she whispered, "She knew Evelyn."
Ortiz nodded.
"Yes. We believe she did."
Grace looked up.
"Is my mother alive?"
It was the question Ortiz had expected and dreaded.
"We haven't confirmed that yet," he said. "But we have new information, and we're going to follow it."
Grace looked away.
"I've spent twenty years thinking she abandoned us."
"I'm sorry."
"I used to hate her."
She wiped her eyes.
"Then I hated myself for hating her."
Ortiz leaned forward.
"You were a child. You were given a story that may not have been true. Whatever you felt was a response to what you were told, not a failure on your part."
Grace stared at the letter.
"Can I meet Evelyn?"
"Of course," Ortiz said. "Only if you want to."
"I do."
Evelyn arrived at Sweet Haven the following afternoon.
Dana had prepared a quiet room at the back of the building. There were two chairs, a small table, and a vase of fresh flowers.
Grace stood near the window.
When Evelyn entered, she stopped.
Neither woman spoke immediately.
Evelyn looked at Grace's face as if searching for something familiar.
Then she whispered, "You have your mother's eyes."
Grace's expression tightened.
"Did you know what happened to her?"
Evelyn shook her head.
"No. I knew she had been moved. I knew she was frightened. I tried to find out where she had gone, but I was told she had been transferred through a confidential arrangement."
"Why didn't you keep looking?"
The question was direct.
Evelyn did not defend herself.
"Because I was afraid. Because I trusted people I should have questioned. Because I convinced myself that I was helping by remaining inside the organization."
Grace folded her arms.
"My mother asked you to help."
"I know."
"She wrote your name."
Evelyn nodded.
"I saw the letter."
"Then you understand why I'm angry."
"Yes."
Grace looked at her for a long time.
"I don't know what I expected you to say."
Evelyn lowered her eyes.
"I can't give you the years you lost. I can't make excuses for what I failed to do. But I can tell you everything I remember, and I can help the investigation however I can."
Grace sat down.
"Then tell me about my mother."
Evelyn took the opposite chair.
And for the next two hours, she spoke.