The three identical girls stopped in front of me and stared at the faded tattoo on my arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then one of them said something that made me forget about the coffee in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSir, our mother has a tattoo exactly like yours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For several seconds, I couldn’t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was sitting on an old bench in Central Park after a long morning at work. My coffee had already gone cold, and I had been enjoying a few rare minutes of quiet when the girls approached me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They looked about seven years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Matching beige coats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neatly arranged hair bows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Polished shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first, I assumed they had simply become curious about the tattoo visible beneath my rolled-up sleeve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then the girl in the middle pointed directly at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat compass,\u201d she said. \u201cOur mom has the same one. Hers is on her shoulder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This wasn’t an ordinary compass tattoo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The design was mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eight years earlier, during a chaotic night in Seattle, I had drawn a broken compass on a napkin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had been with a woman named Camila.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were both younger then, uncertain about our futures and pretending that uncertainty was exciting instead of frightening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camila had picked up the napkin and laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA broken compass,\u201d she said. \u201cPerfect. Neither of us knows where we’re going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before sunrise, we had both gotten the design tattooed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mine on my forearm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hers on her shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As far as I knew, only two people in the world carried that exact design.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camila and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the three girls again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The girl smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOur mother has the same tattoo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My heartbeat quickened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is your mother’s name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before any of them could answer, a woman hurried across the path toward us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wore a gray uniform and looked as though she had been searching frantically for the children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRegina! Lucy! Valerie!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The girls turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman reached them and immediately pulled them closer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe were just talking,\u201d one girl explained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman’s eyes moved toward me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then toward my tattoo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her expression changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened quickly, but I saw it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Recognition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m sorry, sir,\u201d she said. \u201cThey shouldn’t have disturbed you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey weren’t disturbing me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI only wanted to ask them a question.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere is nothing to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her answer came too quickly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy are you so worried?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman looked toward the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A large black SUV was waiting near the curb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMs. Montgomery will be very upset.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The name stopped me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Montgomery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew that surname.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Almost everyone in New York did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Montgomery family was connected to some of the city’s most influential businesses and philanthropic organizations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But that wasn’t why the name disturbed me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camila had once mentioned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Years earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remembered asking about her family during that night in Seattle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had immediately changed the subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the time, I hadn’t questioned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now memories returned with uncomfortable clarity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her clothes had always been expensive, even when she tried to dress casually.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her phone had constantly received calls she refused to answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She never discussed her parents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Never explained where she lived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And whenever I asked about her future, she smiled and told me not to ruin the evening with serious questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman in the gray uniform hurried the girls toward the SUV.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWait,\u201d I called.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn’t stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither did the girls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I followed them several steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs their mother’s name Camila?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only for a second.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she opened the vehicle door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That brief hesitation gave me all the answer I needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The three girls climbed inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before the door closed, the girl named Regina looked back at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her eyes stayed on my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she looked at my tattoo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door shut.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I reached the curb just as the SUV began moving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Through the tinted window, one small hand pressed against the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then the vehicle disappeared into Manhattan traffic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remained there long after it was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eight years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The girls were approximately seven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camila had the same tattoo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the woman caring for them had reacted to my question as though I had uncovered something I was never supposed to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told myself there could be a simple explanation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A coincidence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A misunderstanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But one question refused to leave my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n