There were no modern decorations, no television, and no obvious sign that anyone had used the room recently.
On the bed lay a faded photograph, turned face down.
Richard pointed toward the chair.
“Please sit down.”
I remained standing.
“Why this room?”
“Because it is where everything began.”
He said it so quietly that I almost didn’t hear him.
I looked around again.
“What began?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he walked toward the mirror and adjusted the chair by a few inches.
“Sit down, Emily. Cross your legs, if you don’t mind.”
I gave him a suspicious look.
“Are you asking me to pose for a photograph?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He looked at the mirror.
“Because I need to see whether my memory is deceiving me.”
My stomach tightened.
I sat down, keeping my handbag in my lap.
Richard stood behind me and studied my reflection.
He wasn’t looking at me the way a man looks at a woman he finds attractive. His expression was something else entirely. It was the expression of someone who had opened an old wound and was afraid of what might emerge.
