She carried a single printed photograph.
“Claire,” she said, “we found something on the motel security footage.”
My mother sat upright. “Derek?”
“Yes,” Harris said. “But not alone.”
She placed the photograph on the table.
It was grainy, taken from above, the motel parking lot washed in blue-gray light. Derek stood beside his abandoned car. Beside him was a woman in a dark coat, her face partly turned away.
Marissa Cole.
But she was not what made my breath catch.
A little boy stood between them, holding Derek’s hand.
He looked about six years old.
The same age as Lily.
Same dark blond hair. Same narrow chin. Same solemn eyes.
Lily woke as if she felt the room change.
“Mommy?” she murmured.
I could not look away from the photograph.
Detective Harris slid another sheet across the table.
“We enhanced the image enough to read the motel timestamp,” she said. “This was taken at 7:12 this morning.”
Six minutes before Lily came into the kitchen.
Before Derek’s suitcase wheels had even faded from our driveway.
Before the lock clicked.
I looked from the boy’s face to Derek’s hand wrapped around his.
Then I saw the detail in the corner of the photograph.
The boy was wearing Lily’s red raincoat.
The one that had gone missing from our hall closet last week.
Detective Harris leaned forward, her voice quiet but urgent.
“Claire, do you recognize this child?”
My answer should have been no.
But on the photograph, tucked beneath the boy’s arm, was a stuffed rabbit with one torn ear.
The same rabbit Lily was holding against her chest.