Then came pounding.
Dad froze.
I went downstairs and opened the door.
My aunt Linda stood on the porch.
She was Mom’s younger sister, and although she lived almost an hour away, she looked as though she’d left home without thinking.
Her hair was pulled into a crooked ponytail, and she wasn’t even carrying a purse.
“Chiara.” She stepped inside. “Where is she?”
I caught her arm.
“Why are you here?”
Aunt Linda stopped.
Her face answered before she did.
“Your dad called me.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
Footsteps sounded above us.
Mom stood at the top of the stairs in her robe.
“Linda?”
Linda looked up.
Mom looked from her to Dad, who had followed her into the hallway.
Something hardened in her expression.
“Everybody upstairs,” she said.
Dad reached for her elbow.
“Cindy, you need to rest.”
“And apparently I need to find out what everyone else knows.”
Nobody argued after that.
Back in the bedroom, Mom lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed.
“Give me the photograph.”
Dad hesitated.
“Brad.”
He handed it over.
I stood beside Mom as she turned it around.
I recognized Grandma immediately, although she was much younger than I remembered.
Mom and Linda stood beside her, both still young themselves.
