People noticed when you changed your hairstyle, when you skipped Sunday service, and especially when you were different. And Avery had always been different. Not by choice—by circumstance. At seven years old, she moved in with Mark and Elaine Carter, her adoptive parents, and for as long as she could remember, the town pitied her.
“Poor girl,” they whispered behind closed blinds. “Her real mother dumped her at a shelter.”
“Wonder who the father was. Bet even she doesn’t know.”
Avery heard the murmurs. Kids always hear the things adults hope they won’t.
Every afternoon, as she walked home with her best friends, Mia and Jordan, the whispers seemed to trail behind them. The children always took the same after-school route: down Maple Street, past Burt’s Bakery, around the chipped lion fountain, and through the old park whose trees had heard more confessions than any church pew.
And in that park… the woman waited.