What was the connection? Greta had abandoned Wendy, too, only not by choice, by drowning. Had that memory lingered in Wendy’s subconscious to make her react in terrible ways to every abandonment in her future? Had Bryce paid a price, too, for abandoning her to his job?

I wasn’t a psychologist, but children and adolescents routinely suffered abandonment. How many of them lost their moral compass?

Too tightly wound to sleep I got up. Wendy’s scrapbooks were still in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser, and I pulled out the one filled with photographs, paging through them again and watching my sister-mother turn from an adorably chubby infant into a toddler and then a girl.

Photos of Greta began to appear. The more I gazed at them, the more I felt this was a girl I would have been friends with. I remembered my mother’s story about the bouquet with the chocolate bar hidden among the flowers. When had she and Wendy grown close? Had she cared that Wendy was prettier? Had she been happy in Wendy’s shadow?

Then Greta began to blossom, too. Since Wendy was in most of the photos, I examined her, as well. Was she happy her friend was turning into someone she might have to compete with? Did friendship override jealousy?

I came to the last photo of the two girls together. I hadn’t paid attention to it before, but now I realized it might be the last one taken before Greta’s death. They weren’t arm in arm, as before, but then they were no longer children. They were adolescents, moving from middle school to high school. Hadn’t my mother said that Greta died right before Wendy went into ninth grade?

They looked happy enough, but almost anything could be hidden behind a smile. I slid the photo out of its holder and carried it to the window where the light was best. I searched their faces, although I wasn’t sure why. Wendy’s hair was nearly white from hours in the sun, and her skin was tanned. Greta’s dark hair was shorter, but beautifully cut in layers to frame her face. Her cheekbones were high, her eyebrows perfectly shaped, and her lashes were long and dark. My mother had said Greta would have been striking, but I saw real beauty here, the kind that would deepen with age.

I almost missed the necklace. I would have missed it entirely if it hadn’t looked so familiar. I held the photo closer, and after a moment I took it with me to my nieces’ room. Noelle’s carved wooden box was still hidden under a stack of unworn sweaters, a testament to how much she loved her absent mother. I sat on her bed and lifted the top. Inside were the same familiar objects, but only one interested me. I lifted a necklace, half a heart on a tarnished chain, and held it next to the photo. For the first time I noticed that the heart had words engraved in it, but they were too worn and tarnished to read.