Elaine leaned closer, her brow furrowing as she examined the child’s arms.
There, on the inside of Ivy’s left forearm, was a tattoo.
Not decorative. Not artistic.
Just numbers.
11-03-21.
It looked old enough to have healed, but uneven, the ink slightly blurred as if it had been done by someone with a shaking hand or no professional tools at all, and a cold thread of unease slid down Elaine’s spine.
“Has anyone run her through the system yet?” she asked.
The unit clerk, Marissa, tapped furiously at her screen. “I tried. Facial recognition, missing persons, state birth registry. Nothing’s coming up.”
Elaine didn’t stop working. “Try federal.”
“I did,” Marissa whispered, her face draining of color. “Elaine… there’s no record. No birth certificate. No immunizations. No school enrollment. It’s like she never existed.”
