No one had seen Serena’s body.

The authorities had declared her “gone” after a high-speed highway incident outside the city. Grant had been denied access to the morgue. A calm official had told him, almost kindly, “It’s better to remember her the way she was, Mr. Holloway.”

And Grant, drowning in pain and pressure, had obeyed.

But behind a line of towering cypress trees, away from security and satin condolences, a child watched the photo like it might blink.

Her name was Addie Quinn.

She was eight years old. Her knees were scraped, her sneakers were worn thin, and her dress had once been pink but now looked like it belonged to the sidewalk. Addie sold gum and bottled water near downtown corners—one of those kids adults trained themselves not to see.