It had taken me a little longer to catch up.

But we had arrived, both of us, at the same place.

I have kept the jacket, by the way.

The one she grabbed.

It is an ordinary jacket, nothing special, and it hangs in my closet still, and I will never give it away, because it is the jacket whose collar my daughter chose before she knew I was her uncle and before I knew I was her father, when we were still, on paper, a stranger and a case.

Whenever I see it I remember the exact pressure of that small fist, the surprising strength of it, the way she held on as though she had made up her mind.