“Nine days,” Charles said.

“You got the message on day eight.

I made sure they sent it.”

I didn’t ask how.

I looked at the elevator doors.

“Twelve years old,” I said.

“She’s twelve years old.”

“I know how old my daughter is.” Charles looked at my uniform the way people look at a mess on the sidewalk.

“You were never here for her.

That uniform doesn’t make you her mother.”

Brenda gave a short, polite laugh.

“She’s asking questions now.”

My hand was tight on the duffel handle.

“Nine tomorrow,” Charles said.