« Gia would never have donated it. »
The words came out sharper than I intended.
She looked at me.
« You don’t know that. »
« I do. »
« No, » she said softly. « You knew her when she was seventeen. »
That hurt.
I turned toward her.
She looked embarrassed.
« I’m sorry. »
But she was right.
I knew Gia at 17.
I knew how she took her coffee, what music she played too loud, and how she rolled her eyes when I asked where she was going.
I knew the girl who had walked out my door.
I did not know the woman she might have become.
« What else was in it? » I asked.
The woman stared at the bag.
« There was a folded piece of paper. »
My fingers went cold.
« What did it say? »
« I don’t remember. »
« Yes, you do. »
Her eyes lifted to mine.
« I remember part of it. »
I leaned closer.
