Chapter 5: The Woman in the Picture
Nobody spoke on the drive home.
Lily watched cartoons with the volume low in the back seat, occasionally humming along with the theme song.
Dad drove with both hands locked around the steering wheel.
Daniel sat beside me.
The photograph lay between us.
My mother.
Alive.
Standing beside Vanessa.
Three months after the fire.
I couldn't stop staring.
“Could it be fake?”” I asked.
Daniel shook his head.
“Possibly. But the film type is authentic to the period.””
“Then my mother survived.””
“That's what the photograph suggests.””
Dad's voice came from the front.
“No.””
I looked at him.
“Dad, you saw her body?””
His shoulders stiffened.
“I identified her.””
“Did you?””
“Yes.””
“Were you sure?””
Dad didn't answer.
That silence hurt more than anything else.
When we reached his house, Vanessa's car was gone.
The front door was unlocked.
Dad immediately stepped inside.
“Stay here.””
I grabbed his arm.
“Dad, no.””
He looked at me.
“I need to see what she left.””
We entered together.
The house smelled like Vanessa's expensive perfume.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
Then Dad noticed the study door.
It was open.
He walked inside.
Drawers had been emptied.
Papers covered the floor.
Someone had searched the room.
Daniel crouched beside the desk.
“They're looking for something.””
Dad turned toward me.
“Your mother left something behind.””
“What?””
“I don't know.””
Daniel picked up a torn envelope.
“Maybe this.””
I took it.
There was one word written across the front.
*EMMA.*
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a small brass key.
And a handwritten note.
*Locker 214. Union Station.*
Dad stared at it.
“Your mother used Union Station.””
“When?””
“Before she died.””
I looked at Daniel.
“Can we go now?””
He nodded.
But before we could leave, a floorboard creaked upstairs.
Dad froze.
Daniel raised a finger to his lips.
Another creak.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy.
Someone was walking down the stairs.
Dad motioned for me to take Lily and move behind him.
The footsteps stopped.
A man's voice came from the hallway.
“Richard?””
Dad's face went pale.
“Who are you?””
The man stepped into view.
He was holding a black leather briefcase.
And I recognized him.
He had been standing beside Vanessa at the airport.
Her lawyer.
But he wasn't alone.
He looked directly at me.
“Emma,” he said quietly, “your stepmother told me you found the key.””
Dad stepped forward.
“What does Vanessa want?””
The lawyer swallowed.
“She wants you to stop looking.””
“Or what?””
He looked toward Lily.
Then back at me.
“She said you'd understand if I gave you this.””
He placed the briefcase on the table.
I opened it.
Inside were dozens of photographs.
My mother.
Vanessa.
My father.
And one photograph that made my entire body go numb.
It showed Vanessa standing outside our burning house on the night my mother died.
But she wasn't alone.
Beside her stood my father.
And in his hand was the same red gasoline can mentioned in the fire report.
Dad whispered,
“Emma…”
I looked at him.
“Tell me that's not you.””
He couldn't.
And then the lawyer quietly said,
“Your father didn't start the fire.””
He pointed to the photograph.
“He was trying to stop it.””
I looked closer.
Behind them, through the flames, someone was running from the house.
A woman.
Alive.
My mother.
And she was carrying something in her arms.
Something that looked exactly like the pink blanket I had slept under as a child.
Then the lawyer leaned toward me and whispered,
May you like
“Your mother wasn't carrying a blanket.””
“She was carrying evidence.””
