There must be thirty or forty people in the picture. Actors and techs, probably, from the professional shows that summer. I know that’s why we came up here. Dad did tell me that much. He said Willa begged my mom to take a role in one of Brody’s productions. This was back when Whisper Cove was a tiny summer theatre with a shoestring budget. Before Willa’s play changed all that. Put this place on the map. Isn’t that how Jude said it?

I lean in closer to study my mother’s image. Her sunglasses are balanced on top of her head like a tiara, and her face is turned to the side. She’s looking at the person next to her. Her hand is on his arm, and she’s laughing. At something he said, maybe. That’s how it looks, anyway.

It takes me a minute to recognize the guy, because he has a full head of curly brown hair. His face is the same, though. It’s Brody Culver. Willa sits on his other side, smiling and laughing too. They all look so young. And so happy.

My mother is wearing a yellow top and denim shorts. Gold strappy sandals. Hot pink polish on her toes. And she’s beautiful. Radiant. But as soon as I see those toes, I feel sick.

Not just sick. Scared.

Terrified.

And then I’m not standing in Brody’s office anymore. I’m hiding underneath one of the big picnic tables out on the sea porch. Rough boards scrape my knees. My hands are over my ears, but I can still hear the low hiss of angry words. All I can see are my mother’s shoes.

Strappy golden sandals.

Pink polished toes.

Someone gasps behind me. That brings me back to reality, and I spin around to find Brody Culver standing in his office doorway staring at me. His mouth is open and he’s gone all pale. He recovers fast, though.

“Did you need something?” he asks. His face is relaxed now. That easygoing smile I saw at breakfast is back. The change is so fast it unnerves me a little.

“Just dropping off some files,” I say. “From Glory.” And I dart around him and out the door before he can say anything else.

There’s a bathroom down the hall, and I duck inside and lock the door. My legs are shaking. I stand there for a minute, leaning on the sink. I’m trying to get myself together. But that terrified feeling is lingering. And I keep thinking about that gasp. The look on Brody Culver’s face.

Almost like he’d seen a ghost.

When I do finally lift my eyes to look into the mirror, it takes me a second to realize what I’m seeing, because the mirror is old and cloudy, and the distortion throws me.