The person who killed Samantha had to have also known Francine too. Their deaths must be connected somehow. But the last time Samantha communicated with her sister was when she was a teenager. The link to this crime had to have roots extending at least that far back. Val needed to find something, anything in Samantha’s past that could put the two murders together.

Some of the pages were old and yellowed with age. The pictures probably dated from the mid to late eighties judging by the clothing and hairstyles depicted. There were several of youngish-looking teenagers. Val lingered on these.

There was one photo of three young girls that caught her eye and after it did, she just stared. It was grainy and hard to discern clear facial features, obviously a result of photography at least thirty years old. Val needed to remove it to see it better and felt around the corners of the page, carefully lifting the cellophane. Her fingers stopped midway, a noise from outside had grabbed her attention as a car door slammed.

Her hand was frozen as she watched Eddie wave to the man next door, who had just gotten out of his car. They talked for a few minutes. She let out a sigh of relief when Eddie finally resumed his work. All attention went back to the book. Her hands trembled as she pulled the picture free.

The girls were around the age of twelve or thirteen. One was much smaller than the other two and had dark hair. Val brought the photo close to her face, her heart pounding. It was no use, no matter how hard she looked, there was no way to be sure. There just wasn’t enough detail. She was so young. But it was just so bizarre that she would have such a strong resemblance in demeanor, such an uncanny way about her. In the photo, the girl’s arms were crossed over her chest and she was leaning against a tree.

All Val could see as she stared at this girl—this girl with her dark hair, small stature and crossed arms—was Julia DeHaviland, her arms crossed, leaning on a gurney telling the story of how she met her husband Colin. Julia looked vulnerable then. The girl in the photo depicted that same vulnerability.

Val flipped the picture over. The writing on the back read; Me and my best friends—Frannie and Sam, August 1987. Why would Samantha even have this? It obviously didn’t belong to her. It belonged to the small dark-haired girl who made the inscription. Val began scouring through the rest of the album, her thoughts racing. She needed to know who this girl was.