Page 105 of Shatter

I stand there in the hall with the plate in my hand and the grilled cheese going cold.

A patch.

Property of Hakon, stitched across the back of a cut small enough to fit her, my name on her.

My throat closes, and I realize I want it so badly my hands shake.

She's sitting on the bed in the dark when I come in.

The lamp's off.

The window's open a few inches, and the night air coming through it smells like rain again.

She's still in her bakery T-shirt, with flour on the hem and the buttercream smear gone crusty on her cheek, her knees pulled up to her chest.

She hasn't moved since I left for dinner.

I set the plate on the dresser.

I sit down on the edge of the bed beside her, close but not touching.

For a long time, neither of us says anything.

"He taught me to ride a bike." Her voice comes out of the dark, flat and far away. "When I was six. Dad was too busy, so Pierce did it. Ran behind me down the driveway holding the seat and let go when I wasn't looking."

I don't say anything.

"He's the one who told me about Santa Claus." She laughs, and it cracks. "He was nine and I was five. He felt so bad about it afterward he gave me his entire Halloween bag."

She pulls her knees in tighter.

"He was at the engagement party." Her voice drops to almost nothing. "He stood right there next to Dad when Desmond put the ring on my finger. And he smiled."

I look at her in the dark.

At the tear tracks cutting through the flour dust on her cheeks.

"I don't know what's true, Espen." She turns her head and looks at me. "I don't know if Mom's sick or if that picture's two years old. I don't know if Pierce is here to help me or here to hand me back. I don't know anything."

"I know." My voice comes out low.

"You don't." She shakes her head. "You don't have anybody who can do this to you. Nobody's going to show up at your door with a picture and..."

She stops, her breath catching.

She's staring at me, and I watch her hear her own words.

"Oh, Gods." Her hand comes up and covers her mouth. "Espen, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Your mother."

"It's okay." My voice comes out rough.

"It isn't." She reaches over and finds my hand on the blanket and grips it hard. "It isn't okay. You don't even know if she's alive."

I don't.

Twenty years, and I've never let myself look.

Never typed her name into a search bar or called the embassy.