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before she could catch it. She stepped out of it and draped it over her arm before walking to the closet to hang it on a hanger. It looked rather lonely there, all by itself.
    Kind of like her, she supposed.
    The style of the dress was loose, and the size was a little big, but it was the only thing—other than a few family photos—that she had of her mother, and wearing it comforted her, made her feel a small spark of connection to the woman who bore her, and to her disrupted childhood.
    It had been one of her mother’s favorites.
    When the authorities had shown up, in the wee hours of the morning all those years ago, to tell her and Connie that the flight their parents were on had burst into flames just before landing, and that her parents were among those that hadn’t survived, Julie had run to their bedroom and wept into the dress. It had been tossed on the end of the bed in a last minute packing decision by her mother.
    Julie had brought the dress with her when CPS had come to take them to the facility. The dress, along with the few—the very few—other items she and Connie were allowed to take with them.
    Connie, she remembered, had been terrified—and very angry. Angry that she wouldn’t be going to the junior prom with some boy she’d had her eye on for months who’d finally asked her to go with him, and angry at their parents for dying, as well. Which was why, Julie understood now, Connie hadn’t taken anything with her but her makeup, her favorite pair of jeans, and a few skimpy tops. She’d been in denial.
    Julie had been scared as well, but beside herself with grief, too. She’d wanted so desperately for the authorities to be wrong—for her parents to show up, still alive, to take them back home. For everything to go back to the way it had been.
    She’d wished it so fervently, in fact, that she’d actually dreamed about it that first night they were in the children’s home. She’d experienced such intense joy, seeing her parents again, that when she’d awakened and realized it hadn’t been real, she’d wanted to curl up and die herself.
    So, during those first days, she’d barely eaten; wouldn’t speak to anyone but Connie. Just wanted it all to fade to black.
    And then, when their caseworker told them that they’d be placed in separate foster homes, Julie told her sister what she’d been thinking—wanting.
    Connie had flung her arms around Julie and squeezed her so tight, she couldn’t breathe. She’d told her not to ever leave her; that they wouldn’t have to live apart. She’d get them out of there and they would go so far away, nobody would ever find them.
    And no matter what her sister had become afterward, Julie would always—always—be grateful to her for the near miraculous feat she’d accomplished that very night by getting the two of them out unnoticed and then, for all those years afterwards, taking care of Julie, keeping her safe, and loving her the best way she could.
    A sigh slipped past Julie’s lips. She walked over to the backpack on the bed and took out the small framed photograph from an inside pouch. As she slowly pivoted and sat on the edge of the mattress, she drew her thumb over the images of her grinning father in his fishing cap, her wind-blown mother, Connie’s sunburned cheeks, and herself—at six years old—holding up the most pathetic excuse for a fish she’d ever seen.
    After another long moment, she positioned the photo, just right, on her nightstand and dropped a fingertip-kiss on each of their images.
    * * *
    Three nights later, Jason was sitting at the table in Julie’s kitchen. It was nearing seven o’clock and he had pages strewn from one rounded edge to the other. It was one of those rickety old tables that wobbled and creaked every time you made the slightest move and it was covered with a red and white checkered plastic table cloth that had more than one acid-brown stain from a stray cigarette on it, as well as a hole burned directly in