Chapter 2: The Photograph
Chapter 2: The Photograph
I drove Harper to school instead of letting Clara take her.
Clara objected immediately.
“She’s already late.”
“I’m headed that way.”
“You work nights.”
“I’m awake.”
Our eyes met across the kitchen.
She knew I was refusing to leave Harper alone with her.
Harper climbed into the back seat without speaking.
For the first five minutes, she stared out the window and held Scout against her chest.
Then she whispered, “Is Mommy mad?”
“No.”
It was a lie, but not one I regretted.
“Did I do something bad?”
“No, Harper.”
“You saw my arm.”
“Yes.”
Her breathing changed.
I pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop and turned off the engine.
“I’m not angry with you.”
She kept staring at the back of my seat.
“Are you going to tell?”
“I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”
“That means yes.”
Her voice cracked.
Before I could answer, she reached into her backpack.
She pulled out a worn photograph folded twice down the middle.
It showed a small house burning at night.
Firefighters stood in the yard. Smoke covered the sky.
In the lower corner, a woman was being placed into an ambulance.
Written on the back in black ink were four words:
Lena tried to tell.
“Who is Lena?” I asked.
Harper’s eyes filled with tears.
“My sister.”
I stopped breathing.
Clara had never mentioned another child.
“Where is she now?”
Harper pressed Scout over her mouth.
“Mommy says she went away.”
“Where?”
“The fire took her.”
I looked again at the photograph.
The date printed in the corner was five years earlier.
Harper would have been two.
“Who gave you this?”
“I found it inside Scout.”
She turned the stuffed fox over.
A section of stitching along its back had been cut and sewn again by hand.
“Mommy doesn’t know I have it,” she whispered. “Lena put things inside toys.”
“What things?”
Harper reached into the hidden seam.
Her fingers pulled out a tiny brass key.
The key was attached to a plastic tag.
On it was a number.
219-B.
Our house number was 219.
I looked at the photograph again.
The burning house in the picture was not the Victorian home on Hawthorne Avenue.
But the front door was the same deep red.
And above it hung the same iron raven ornament that now hung over Clara’s fireplace.
May you like
Someone had removed it from the ruins.
Someone had brought it into our home.
