The woman on the low wall wore a torn coat and a stubborn posture. People drifted past her as if she were air. Her eyes, though, were sharp. “They will not let you in,” she said. “The orphanage is not the mystery.” She paused. “The paperwork is.”
“Where did you get that case number?” Nina asked. The woman rolled the paper square between her fingers. “From my old job.” She shrugged. “Back when my name existed in the records.” Nina’s instinct pricked. Street stories were often wild, but the number had landed too clean. “What is your name?” Nina asked. “Jessa,” she shouted as she walked away.