The Girl in the Photograph
Harris didn’t love the idea of bringing Patrick, but he understood why my son needed answers. He agreed Patrick could ride along as far as the diner, as long as he stayed in the car unless told otherwise.
Patrick sat in the back seat, the photograph turned face down on his knee.
He couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.
But he couldn’t let it go either.
At the diner, Harris showed the waitress the picture and said we were looking for a relative.
The waitress glanced at it and nodded.
“That’s Emily,” she said. “She helps out at Miller’s produce stand sometimes. Lives with her grandmother out in Dalton Ridge.”
Patrick closed his eyes.
It wasn’t Lily.
Her name was Emily.
And somehow hearing that made the lie both clearer and crueler.
We drove to Dalton Ridge. Emily’s grandmother opened the door, saw the photograph, and tried to shut it again immediately. Harris showed his badge, and after a tense moment, she let us in.
The truth came out fast.
A man had taken Emily’s photograph the week before. He’d told her grandmother it was for a local sunflower festival flyer.
He’d asked Emily to stand near the flowers.
To hold one.
To look sad.
Then the grandmother said his name.
Vince.
