The photograph was not of Lucas.
That was the first thing my mind registered, and for one strange second, relief flickered through me.
Then I looked closer.
It was a picture of our house.
Our front door.
Our porch.
Taken from across the street, slightly angled, as though whoever had taken it had been sitting in a parked car under the maple tree near Mrs. Bellamy’s mailbox.
My breath caught.
The photo showed me and Lucas leaving the house together that morning, each of us dressed for the airport. Lucas was smiling. I was looking down, pretending to search for something in my purse. It was ordinary enough, almost dull.
Except someone had been watching us.
I enlarged the image with trembling fingers.
In the reflection of the living room window, barely visible behind the porch column, was a figure standing near the side gate.
A woman.
“Click here to read the full story”.
