The birthmark I used to kiss goodnight when she was two years old, before her mother took her and vanished.
“License and registration,” she said, professional and cold.My hands shook as I handed them over. Robert “Ghost” McAllister.
She didn’t recognize the name—Amy had probably changed it. But I recognized everything about her.
The way she stood with her weight on her left leg. The small scar above her eyebrow from when she fell off her tricycle. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating.
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