I packed a small bag for Harrison and left him with Clara, a retired nurse who lived down the road.

“We’ll be playing on the beach,” Clara said, holding Harrison on her hip.

Harrison waved his small hand at me, his fingers sticky with apple butter.

“Mama back soon,” he said.

“Soon, sweetie,” I said, kissing his forehead.

I drove south toward Connecticut.

The interstate stretched out before me, a gray ribbon cutting through the autumn trees.

With every mile, the knot in my stomach tightened.

I arrived in Norwalk at three in the afternoon.

The storage facility was a drab, gray concrete building surrounded by a chain-link fence.

Lydia was already parked by the main office, sitting in her black sedan.

She got out when she saw my car, her tailored wool coat buttoned to her chin.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

We walked into the small, cold office.

Martin Bell was already there, leaning against a counter.

He looked older than he had in his New York office, the lines around his eyes deeper.

“Elena,” Martin said, nodding to me. “Lydia.”