PART 2 — THE MAN WHO KNEW MY DEAD HUSBAND
Inside the envelope was a photograph.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
Not because I didn’t recognize the people in it.
Because I did.
Too well.
It was my family.
The photograph had been taken nearly twenty-five years earlier, on the front porch of the first house Michael and I had ever owned.
I was standing in the middle wearing a pale blue summer dress, my hair longer then, one arm wrapped around our daughter, Emily.
Michael stood beside me with his hand resting on our son Ryan’s shoulder.
Everyone was smiling.
Everyone looked happy.
It was the sort of photograph people framed because it proved, at least for one frozen second, that life had once felt simple.
But someone had drawn a red circle around Michael’s face.
My husband.
My dead husband.
I flipped the photograph over.
