I read the texts Mom sent Dad, over and over again, desperately trying to remember her voice. But I barely remember anything, only fragments of moments that dance across my memory, untrustworthy and chipped away by time.

How has Jess been today? Tell her I’ll be home soon.

Was I ill that day? Did something important happen?

I feel a bolt of pain whenever I imagine her writing my name, thinking of me, reassuring me she’ll come home.

I need more of her, because I’ve used up what we have. Eventually, every picture loses its magic; every message is only words on a screen. They aren’t her. They’re just things.

In the corner of the attic, untouched, is the box Dad asked me to ignore. I always imagined it was full of memories that would break our hearts all over again, so I did what I was told. But not today.

When I open it, I see an ultrasound scan, a black-and-white smudge that must be me. Underneath is a journal of my first year, and beneath that are notes in my father’s handwriting. Some are crossed out and rewritten, and I realize these are drafts of messages he wrote to my mother.

Tucked to the side is a digital camera that won’t turn on. God knows how long it’s been here or how many devices we own that haven’t been charged since she died.

I take out the memory card and go back to my room, then bring my laptop to the attic, where the musty smell and twinkling lights calm me in a way I can’t describe.

These are photos I’ve never seen before: not familiar pictures from the albums Nan likes to reminisce over but candid shots, mostly of me, some of Dad, and those few magical moments of Mom, brand-new images that make my heart soar.

I grow up seven years in one hundred clicks of a mouse, and then the images change. They are smudged and unclear, as if someone has focused too closely on something.

There are four of them, each less blurry than the last but still a mystery, and then the final image, of someone holding a camera in front of their face, photographing whoever took this shot.

I look at the date stamp. It was taken the day Mom was killed.

Chapter 118

The more I stare at the pictures, the blurrier they become. Even the image of the person with the camera is unclear, like someone was moving as they took it, smearing the man’s edges.

It is a man—I can see that much, but that’s all. It’s too close to tell where he is or what he’s doing, only that he’s returning the favor: two people each taking a photo of the other. But why?

I leave the attic and hold the laptop in front of my dad. “Did you take these?”