It was taken before I was born, my mother looking at something off-camera, her lips slightly parted. She looks stunning, blissful, safe.

I remember her in a million different ways, depending on how I feel or who’s telling the story or who took the picture. This is Dad’s memory, but like all the others, I’ve adapted it and made it my own.

I wonder what he thinks as he stares at it: if he feels sad that she’s not around to make these decisions for him, if he blames her absence for my actions. Maybe it soothes him, because he hates having strangers in the house. Or maybe it’s just habit, the face he turns to whenever he’s alone.

I clear my throat, and he slides the photo into the side of his chair and looks up.

“They’ll watch you sleep?” he asks.

“It’s faked. We let them in, and I pretend to wake up. It’s not as bad as it sounds. And the cameras stop filming at midnight. I’ll be in control.”

Dad shakes his head, but I keep going.

“I have a chance to do something. We have a shot at justice.”

Dad’s shoulders sag, and he breathes deeply. “There’s no such thing as justice.”

He reaches for the remote, but before he can end this conversation, I say, “No! I’m not letting you ruin this.”

He looks at me with genuine shock, because this isn’t how we speak to each other anymore. We don’t shout. We don’t disagree. We used to, when he soaked up my anger like a sponge. But over the last few years, we’ve learned to live in a quiet kind of turmoil.

Dad doesn’t deserve my drama, but today is different. If he doesn’t sign the contract, another parent for another applicant will, and I’ll lose my chance.

“There is such a thing as justice,” I say. “We’ve never seen it, but it exists. And this show might be our only chance. It’s been ten years, and he’s still out there. He’s still killing, and he won’t stop unless something changes.

“Remember what Mom used to say, about making yourself the hero of your story? This is our story, and we need to try.”

I see the tears forming in Dad’s eyes, and I could stop, but I’m done stopping.

“We could have three months to remind everyone what happened to us. We can put our story everywhere, talk about it every single week, and ensure it stays newsworthy. And we could do what the police couldn’t. There are clues out there, Dad. Someone knows something.”

I go to him and pull the photograph from the chair cushion and hold it up.

“She wants justice,” I say. “She needs it. We all do. Please.”