“Gia wouldn’t have donated it.”
The words came out too abruptly.
Dana looked at me.
– You don't know.
– Yes, indeed.
"No," he said carefully. "You knew her when she was seventeen."
That sentence hurt.
Because he was right.
I knew Gia, who was seventeen.
He knew how she drank coffee.
Which songs did he play too loudly?
How she rolled her eyes when I asked her where she was going.
But he knew nothing of the woman she might have become.
Dana seemed forgiven.
- I'm sorry.
“What else have you found?”
She looked at the bag.
“A folded piece of paper.”
My fingers got cold.
– What did he say?
“I don’t remember all that.”
– Yes, you do.
She looked at me.
“I remember part of it.” I waited.
“He said something about not wanting to go home.”
My chest tightened.
“I think the words were: 'I can't go back yet'.”
Suddenly, Gia was standing at my door again.
Green tank top.
Cream-colored bag.
Bag design software
That stubborn expression.
“Was his name on that?”
Dana looked away.
– You said you had heard the name Gia.
She nervously rubbed the leash.
Then she said, "There was something else."
- That?
“The lining tore years ago. When I tried to fix it, I felt something hidden inside me.”
I could barely breathe.
Dana opened the bag .
She moved her sunglasses to the side.
Sunscreen.
A wallet.
A paperback book.
Then he reached into a narrow inside pocket and pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.
Inside there was a photograph.
My hands started trembling even before she handed it to me.
Gia.
Older.
Not much older.
