PART 1

The station smelled of burnt coffee and rain-soaked coats.

A box fan rattled behind the front counter, pushing warm air across a stack of incident forms while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Officer Paul Hayes was halfway through writing a parking report when the two girls came through the glass doors holding hands.

They were dressed almost alike—gray hoodies, jeans, worn sneakers—but only one of them was walking straight.

The other kept folding at the waist as if every step pulled a string tight inside her stomach.

Paul stood so quickly his chair rolled backward and struck the metal filing cabinet.

“Are you here with an adult?” he asked, stepping out into the lobby.

The girl nearest the counter shook her head.

Her name was Nora.

She spoke with the careful seriousness children use when they have repeated a warning to themselves all the way down a sidewalk.

“My sister is Violet,” she said, her voice small but steady.

“Daddy said she would feel sleepy, but she says it hurts.”

Violet did not correct her.

She lowered herself beside the counter, knees drawn up, both arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

Paul moved around the desk, but Nora immediately stepped between him and her twin.

“Don’t make her go home,” Nora whispered.

That single sentence changed the entire energy in the room.