I went to pick up my daughter’s designer bag—and the repairman grabbed my wrist, whispering, “Get the kids out of town tonight,” before he showed me what was sewn inside.

The second thing made my throat close. Photographs. Two of them. Grace and Liam playing in the backyard last summer. Grace’s blonde ponytail catching the sunlight. Liam’s gaptothed grin as he clutched his blue stuffed bear.

But someone had drawn red circles around both their faces. Not careful circles. Not neat. These were jagged, angry, like whoever held the marker had pressed down so hard they nearly tore through the paper. The rage in those red strokes made my stomach twist. The circles pressed over my grandchildren’s smiling faces like targets.

Then I saw the third item, a small folded piece of paper handwritten in blue ink.

Package ready. Coordinates 40.7128 North 74.0060 west. Delivery Thursday, 10 p.m. Cood.

The room tilted. That T at the end. The way the tail curved back, slanting slightly to the left. I’d seen that signature a thousand times on birthday cards, on school permission slips, on our family calendar. That was Tamson’s handwriting, my daughter’s handwriting, on a note that called Grace and Liam package.

I couldn’t breathe. The evidence bag slipped from my fingers and Tony caught it.

Juliet, he said, his voice breaking. I have a daughter, too, Sophia. She’s 8 years old, same age as Grace. When I saw these photos with those marks, his eyes welled. I thought, what if someone knew Sophia was in danger and said nothing, I couldn’t stay silent.

He set the bag on the counter between us.

I’ve been in this business 30 years. I’ve repaired bags for mayors, for judges, for criminals. I found money, love letters, drugs, but I’ve never found evil until today.

I looked at the handwriting again. Tamson’s familiar T. The coordinates, the red circles drawn with such violence.

This is human trafficking, Tony whispered. This is someone marking children to sell them.

I grabbed the counter to keep from collapsing. I remembered finding credit card statements on Tamson’s desk last month, charges from casinos, online betting sites. When I’d asked about a call from Apex Collections she’d snapped at me, said it was workrelated. Her hands always shook when money came up.

Gambling debts, a trafficker’s signature. My grandchildren circled in red.

I left Tony’s shop, clutching the evidence bag inside my purse. The spring rain now feeling like ice against my skin. Those red circles haunted me, but it was Tamson’s handwriting that terrified me most because it meant this wasn’t something being done to her. This was something she had done.