First he removed the remains of their meal, then poured himself another drink. He reached inside the top desk drawer and carefully handed her a crumpled sheet of paper. “I found this inside a cardboard box in the basement,” he said. “No envelope. She must’ve left it the night I overheard that phone call.” He paused for a moment. “Tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to find anything down there.”

It was a handwritten letter. From Christine to Della and dated September 12, thirty-three years ago, when Shallie was two.

Dear Della,

Thank you for being such a good sister—and wonderful aunt to Shallie. And thanks to you and Norm for understanding the danger we’re in.

My husband is after me again. He called here this evening. So I’m leaving now and trusting you with Shallie’s care. Try to get in with foster services to help pay for her needs. As you know, I have no money to leave you, just have a few hundred dollars in cash. I’ve left her birth certificate, as well. Please give it to her once she hits her teens.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know I won’t be able to get in touch. At least not for years. If ever…

Please tell her I’ve always loved her and always will. She’ll be on my mind forever. And please let Shallie know I’m doing this because I love her. I’m doing it to protect her.

Thanks to both of you for letting me stay here and for being the family my daughter and I needed.

Love

Christine

Shallie felt completely shaken. “But to be honest, none of this is…totally unexpected. Still, I should pass it, or at least a copy, on to Eddie.”

Russ agreed. “Uh, I have something else for you.”

Shallie could hardly imagine what that might be; having this letter was more than she’d ever dared hope.

He took another object from the drawer, this one a frayed and discolored photo packet. She accepted it, hands trembling.

She opened it. The photos—just five—were faded and the edges torn. Unbelievable as it might seem to most people, she’d never seen a picture of Christine Fletcher before. But this was unmistakably her. Reddish-brown hair, eyes the same color and shape as hers… The resemblance was clearly there. My mother.

One of the photos showed Christine holding a tiny baby. Had to be her. Had to be. Shallie turned it over to look at the back. “Christine and Shallie” was written in Della’s best handwriting, followed by the date: Feb. 10, 1984. She turned over another one; this time she was sitting by herself on the bedraggled gray sofa (no doubt still in Russ’s living room); she wore a too-large frilly yellow dress, the frills rather limp. “Happy 2nd Birthday, Shallie! June 21.”