He did, perching stiff and tense on the edge of the bed. I went to my dresser and got the photos out of my top drawer. I’d shoved Lexie back behind my underwear and socks, as if she were as innocent a thing as a pink diary with a heart-shaped lock. I came to join him, leaving a little space between us on the bed.

I sat down, and into this space I dealt her pictures out for Trey. One, two, three, four, Trey scanning each in turn, his lips going paler and paler, as I said, “Coral mailed these to me. She dropped them at the post office the day before we met her at the carousel. Trey, they came this morning.” I set the last one down, and she was with us. I could feel her.

“Jesus.” His hand came up to rub at his mouth. When he saw the final picture, his gaze skated away. Fast. He looked around, still rubbing his mouth, distressed. He did not look back down at the pictures. He did not look at me. “I never saw most of these. I didn’t look when I made Ansel burn them. I didn’t want to see—”

My eyebrows came together. He’d said, when he told me the ugly story, that he hadn’t looked at the pictures when he went to Ansel’s room to burn them. I hadn’t questioned it. But now I knew personally how hard a thing that was to do.

I was trying to find the words to say this to him when he asked, “When did Coral Lee Pine get these pictures? How?”

I told him everything I’d told Marshall. As I spoke, his gaze roamed the room, avoiding my face and the photos both. His hands rubbed restlessly together.

When I finished, he finally glanced down. He reached for the second picture in the line, as if he were going to pick it up, but he didn’t quite touch it. He looked away again, so sad.