Abandoning the hair tie, she turned off the flashlight. Her hope disappeared as swiftly as the light did. When she’d first broken in, she was certain she’d find answers here. She no longer had any doubt this was the house that Amelia walked into.

But it still wasn’t making any sense.

The couple seemed like good people. There was nothing in the house that seemed suspicious at all. I mean, they took in foster kids for God’s sake.

She froze, thinking.

Or did they?

Recently, she’d read a news article about the police tying a man to a string of kidnappings because of pictures and mementos found in his house. Maybe the box was something more sinister than they wanted people to believe. Perhaps the label didn’t reveal the truth.

Tearing out of the room, Whitney stumbled down the hallway, hurrying toward the office. As she passed the couple’s bedroom, she was relieved to hear the snoring. She prayed they weren’t early risers.

She scooted the box along the ground, bringing it toward the center of the room, where she could see more clearly. After grabbing a handful of the pictures, she leafed through them. A couple of baby pictures. A few school photos. God, she really hoped these had been their foster kids. She tossed the pictures back in, realizing that the answers were most likely in the paperwork. Perhaps she’d find a newspaper article. Didn’t criminals like to read up on cases about themselves? If she could prove they were criminals, the police would surely take her seriously. No longer consider Amelia a runaway.

As the pictures fluttered down into the box, one of them caught her attention. Familiarity gripped her. Something about the woman in the photo. Snatching it up, she brought it closer to her face. Got a better look. It was grainy, a little blurred. Three people sitting in a hospital bed—a woman, a baby and a child, probably around six or so.

Whitney knew immediately who they were. Her own former best friend with her two daughters. She remembered the last time they’d bumped into one another, years after their estrangement.

“This is my daughter Lauren.”

The little girl with her hair in two unbalanced pigtails smiled up at her.

Whitney stared hard at the picture. What was it doing here? Was this the same girl? The girl that had been in her house. Sat at her kitchen table. Ate her food. Drank her coffee. Spent the night in the room next to hers.

There’s no way.

Lauren would be around twenty-four by now. Not seventeen.

Then again, Whitney remembered that the little Lauren she’d met had been small for her age. Looked younger even then. Maybe she still looked younger than her years.