Far from the velvet ropes and black umbrellas stood a girl in worn sneakers and a jacket two sizes too big. Her name was Tala. She was nine. She had slipped between the catering staff who never looked closely at small people. Tala’s gaze fixed on Mirelle’s portrait with bewildered intensity. She pressed her palms together, then whispered to herself, “I saw her. That lady. Yesterday.”
The priest lifted his voice. “Dust returns to dust.” The coffin began to lower.
Tala burst forward. Grass flew beneath her shoes. “Stop it. Stop!” Her small voice cracked the ceremony open like a stone through glass.
A guard shouted, “Kid. Move back.”
But Jack raised his head, startled by the desperation in that voice. Tala reached the brink of the grave and shouted, “She isn’t dead. I saw her in a window near Old Harbor Street. She looked sad, but alive.”
The crowd gasped. Some scoffed. Others stared at Jack to see whether he would dismiss or believe.
He approached Tala carefully. “Tell me what you saw.”
Tala swallowed. “A tall lady with brown hair tied back. Her face looked like that picture. She stared out the window like she wanted someone to notice.”