As they crouched side by side, Margaret stared at the line of the young woman’s profile. The slope of the nose. The shape of the ear. The small crease between the brows when she concentrated. Time had changed the face, of course. The child Margaret remembered had been round-cheeked and bright with the soft edges of 6. This was a grown woman. Tall. Lean. Composed. But the architecture beneath it was there, intact enough to hurt.
“Are you all right, honey?” Jon asked quietly, one hand steady at the center of Margaret’s back.
“I’m fine,” she managed, though she was not fine in any sense that mattered.
Sarah looked up with concern.
“Would you like some water? I have a bottle in our cooler.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m all right now,” Margaret said, forcing herself upright.
She had to ask. The question rose from somewhere far older than caution.
“Where did you say your farm was?”
“About 30 mi east, up in the foothills,” Sarah said. “It’s pretty remote. Helps keep the berries organic and pest-free. Our father taught us everything about sustainable farming.”
“Your father?” Jon asked.
“Robert Greenfield,” Sarah said, and her voice warmed at the name. “He adopted us when we were little and taught us to love the land. Best dad 3 girls could ask for.”
The world tilted.
Robert Greenfield.
The name struck Margaret with such force that for a second the market blurred around the edges. It was not unfamiliar. It belonged to those old months after the disappearance, the months when every name had mattered too much. Robert Greenfield had been part of the investigation. Not centrally, not publicly, but enough that the memory remained. Watsonville Elementary. Science teacher. A man who had known children and families, who had been close enough to trust without attracting suspicion.
“Mr. Greenfield,” Margaret said slowly. “Was he a teacher?”
Sarah’s smile brightened.
“He was, actually. Elementary school science teacher for years before he decided farming was his true calling. How did you know?”
Before Margaret could answer, the other 2 sisters approached the stand. Up close, the resemblance was devastating. Sophie carried herself with a thoughtful seriousness that struck Margaret like a physical blow. Stella tilted her head as she listened, exactly the way her youngest daughter had always done when paying close attention.
“Sarah, we need to start packing up,” Sophie said. “Dad wants us back by noon to help with the new irrigation system.”
Of course. Dad. The word moved between them so naturally it made Margaret feel briefly nauseated.
“Sophie, Stella, these nice folks were just admiring our berries,” Sarah said.
Margaret’s knees nearly failed her.
These were not strangers who happened to resemble her daughters. Not in any way that could be explained by coincidence or grief or yearning. She was looking at Sarah, Sophie, and Stella, older by 15 years, but still themselves in all the tiny ways that survive time and damage. The shape of the eyes. The stance. The tension in the shoulders. The impossible fact of names preserved intact.
“We should go,” Jon said under his breath, his voice stretched tight with effort.
“Wait,” Margaret whispered.
She looked at the 3 young women and asked the question she would later replay in her mind a hundred times.
“Do any of you ever have dreams about a different place? A different family?”
