Grace's mother pushes the door open wider and allows me inside, my misery multiplying when I see they've already packed boxes, probably just in case I threw them out on the streets. Pictures of Grace at all stages of her life remain on the wall, however, shooting my heart up into my mouth.
We walk into a room at the back of the three-bedroom apartment and the woman points to a small twin bed in the corner of the room, a shelf built into the headboard, packed with books. Simple and small. Unworthy of my angel. I've never been so determined to lay the world at her feet.
"I doubt there is anything in here that will tell us where she's gone," says her mother. "There might be a clue in her diary, but it's locked."
I look over to find the woman turning a small book over in her hand—and I take
