I stepped closer.
“Where did you get it?”
Her smile disappeared.
“One of the cleaners at school gave it to me.”
I stared at her.
“What cleaner?”
“A woman named Dolly.”
“Why would a school cleaner give you a sweater?”
Sophie shrugged.
“She said she thought I’d like it.”
I reached for the sleeve.
My hands were shaking.
The wool was older now.
Softer.
There were tiny repairs near one cuff.
But I knew it.
I turned the neckline inside out.
There, sewn into the fabric in faded thread, were two letters.
L.W.
Laura Whitmore.
My knees almost gave out.
“Sophie.”
She looked frightened now.
“What’s wrong?”
“This belonged to my sister.”
“Laura?”
I nodded.
Sophie knew the story.
Everyone in the family knew the story.
Laura was the ghost at the edge of every old photograph.
The missing girl nobody fully understood.
Sophie stared at the initials.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
Then her expression changed.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“She told me something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Dolly.”
Sophie touched the sunflower.
“She said if I ever wondered why she gave it to me, I should look under the flower.”
I stared at her.
“Under it?”
She nodded.
We laid the sweater on the kitchen table.
At first, I saw nothing unusual.
