At nearly nine in the morning, I stood near the tall windows in the living room, gazing out over the bay, holding tightly to the warm mug filled with coffee. In Chicago we had Lake Michigan, but most of the views I’d ever seen included the tall buildings of the city. Here from Van’s home I was enthralled by the natural beauty. No other structure could be seen, making the snow-blanketed view unspoiled. Wearing the camisole and shorts I’d worn to bed and the long robe, I familiarized myself more and more with Van’s home. I could now make my way around the first level without taking a wrong turn.

An hour later, fresh from my shower as I opened the door to Van’s office, it was on purpose.

My eyes went immediately to the table behind his desk.

The picture I’d seen yesterday was gone.

My pulse kicked up a notch as I turned all the way around, looking for the photograph somewhere else.

There were no other personal pictures to be seen in any other location. They were only located on the one table. I hadn’t really looked at the other photos yesterday—I’d been too shocked by the one of Van in a tuxedo with a woman in a wedding dress. Now as I looked at each picture, I wondered if I’d imagined that one photo.

I hadn’t.

I knew I hadn’t.

Where did it go?

One by one, I lifted each of the other frames. There was a small aged photo, the kind that appeared to be sepia versus black and white, in a round frame. I could only surmise that these people were special to Van, perhaps his grandparents. There was another photo of a blond woman. She was pretty with striking green eyes.

Is she the woman in the other picture?

I couldn’t be certain.

“Were you his wife?” I asked quietly to no one. My head tilted as I looked at her eyes. “Or are you Van’s sister?”

There was another framed photo that appeared to have been taken from a distance. There were three children playing on a beach. If I were to guess, the picture had aged, but I had no other reference than that. I couldn’t even make out the children well enough to assume their ages. Even the coloring of their hair was difficult to distinguish with the way the sunlight bleached the scene.

There were two other older couples. One appeared as if the photo was taken from a newspaper. “Who are these people?” I mumbled.

The last picture was of a girl. It too had been taken at a distance, but her face was visible. She was pretty with curly dark hair and a sweet smile with big front teeth.

“The information in the library wasn’t enough?” Van asked, entering his office.