“I don’t know anything, Ryan. And I don’t know you.” With those quiet words she turned and left the room.

* * *

He waited until he knew Lizzy would be in bed and then knocked on the door of Castaway Cottage, unsure whether she’d even open it.

The island was folded in mist and darkness, and behind him he could hear the rush of the sea against the shore. He was thinking how much courage it must have taken to choose this place as a refuge, when the door opened.

Emily’s feet were bare, and her hair fell soft and loose around her face.

She didn’t look pleased to see him, but he’d braced himself for that.

“I need to talk to you.”

“We’ve said all there is to say.”

“I want to show you something. Give me five minutes. If you still want me to leave after that, I’ll leave.” The thought of what he was about to do made him feel as shaky as an alcoholic who hadn’t had a drink in a month.

She stared at the box in his arms and opened the door a little wider. “Lizzy is asleep.”

“Good, because this is between us.” He carried the box through to the kitchen. Given the choice, he would have destroyed it long ago, but he knew keeping it meant a lot to his grandmother.

He put it down on the table next to one of Lizzy’s paintings, a classic child’s drawing of a house with smoke coming from the chimney. There was a garden, drawn with careful strokes of green, and a curve of custard yellow sand next to an ocean bluer than anything he’d seen in Maine. It was obvious to him that this was his grandmother’s house. The innocent charm of the picture jarred uncomfortably with the dark reality he’d placed next to it.

He stood for a moment with his hands on the box.

He’d chosen to live life looking forward, not back, and he didn’t relish what he was about to do.

“That’s Agnes’s box.” She stood next to him, waiting. “I already know what’s in it.”

No, he thought. You don’t. “I want you to take a look. Read.”

“I don’t need to read.”

“You wanted to know about my past.” He felt distant and detached, as if someone else had climbed into his body. “This is my past.”

“Which you try and forget. Why? Do you regret the stories you wrote?”

“No. But they stay with you.” He flipped open the top and gripped the back of the chair until his knuckles were white. “Especially that one.”

She stared at his face and then down at the file. In slow motion, she picked up the clipping on top. Award-Winning Photojournalist Killed in Kabul?