Vicky found a parking place a half block away and guided Marcy Morrison past the novelty stores, boutiques, and coffee shops, aware of the images of a black-haired woman and a small, light-skinned girl flashing in the plate-glass windows. It was mid-afternoon, the sky a burned-out blue and the day’s heat rolling off the sidewalk. There was a lazy summer feeling to the traffic that flowed past—tourists on the way into the Wind River range to fish and hike and camp. People in shorts, tee shirts, and sandals, cameras bumping on their chests, strolled along the sidewalks. Flowers overflowed the planters at the curb, and the smell of geraniums drifted in the air. She opened the framed glass door and ushered Marcy into the shadows of a small entry and up the narrow staircase. The girl climbed slowly, pulling herself along the railing. Vicky wanted to assure her, tell her everything would be all right, a comforting thought that may or may not be true. She didn’t say anything. At the top of the steps, she leaned in close to the intercom next to the pebbled-glass door.
