They had spent the day walking along the boardwalk, visiting shops, and eating seafood from paper baskets.
That was when he heard a woman laugh behind him.
He turned around.
The woman was walking beside a man through the crowd.
She wore a wide-brimmed sun hat and a loose summer dress. At first, Noah saw only her profile.
Then she turned her head.
He said his entire body went cold.
“It wasn’t only her face,” he told me. “It was the way she moved. The way she tilted her head when she laughed. Dad, I remember that laugh.”
I shook my head.
“Noah, grief can make people see similarities that aren’t really there.”
“I knew you would say that.”
“You were nine when she disappeared.”
“I know what my mother looked like.”
His voice rose, and several of the younger children began gathering near the kitchen doorway.
I lowered my voice.
