“No. Forget it.”
There was only one way.
I drove to Richmond.
Rebecca had broken her left leg when she was nine because I dared her to jump from the roof of our father’s toolshed.
The bone came through the skin.
I remembered the screaming more clearly than the blood.
Dad carried her to the truck while I ran behind them barefoot, convinced I’d killed her.
She kept the scar.
The woman in room 417 had it.
I saw it below the edge of her hospital gown before I saw her face properly.
Twelve years changed more than I expected.
Her hair, once almost to her waist, stopped at her chin and was streaked prematurely with gray.
She was thinner.
Her nose looked slightly crooked, as if it had been broken.
There were fine lines around her mouth.
But she had Dad’s hands.
Long fingers.
Crooked little finger.
