Part 3
The rain thickened against Nora’s windshield, turning the grocery store parking lot into a blur of gray pavement and trembling lights.
For several seconds, I could not look away from the photograph on my phone.
A younger Evan stood on a wooden dock beneath a clean summer sky, his smile wide and easy, his hair wind-tossed in a way I had only seen in old family albums. Claudia stood beside him in white linen, pearls at her throat, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
And between them was the girl.
Anna.
She looked about seventeen, maybe eighteen. Dark hair. Slender frame. A guarded expression that did not match the warmth of the day around her. Evan’s arm rested across her shoulders, but she did not lean into him. She stood very still, as though the camera had caught her in the middle of deciding whether to step away.
Before Lily, remember Anna.
The words on the back of the photo seemed to press themselves into my chest.
Nora reached over and gently took the phone from my hand before it slipped.
“Breathe,” she said.
I had not realized I was holding my breath.
Noah stirred against me, making a small sound, a tiny complaint against the cold world and the sudden tension in my body. Instinct moved through me faster than fear. I tucked the blanket closer around his little legs and rested my palm against his back.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m right here.”
Nora watched me with eyes bright from worry. “We need to go home.”
Home.
For most of my marriage, home had meant Evan’s house. His polished floors, his mother’s wedding china, his rules hanging invisible in every room. But now home meant Nora’s yellow guest room, the secondhand bassinet by the window, the kettle that whistled too loudly, and the friend who had not asked me to prove my pain before believing me.
“Yes,” I said. “But first, take a picture of my screen with your phone.”
Nora blinked. “What?”
“If this message disappears, I want a copy.”
Something changed in her expression. Fear gave way to focus.
“Good,” she said softly. “That’s good.”
She photographed the messages, the unknown number, the image of Anna, and the words on the back of the picture. Then she forwarded them to her email and mine.
“Should we reply?” she asked.
I stared at the unknown number.
Do not trust Vanessa. She helped him plan this.
And do not go to Briar Lake alone.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I could hear Miriam Shaw’s voice in my memory, calm and practical from the day she sat beside my hospital bed while Noah slept under the blue nursery blanket.
