Kayla holding an ultrasound picture beside Ray’s face, comparing their noses.
And then, hanging by itself in the corner, was an old, grainy photograph of a softball field.
A little girl with a blond ponytail stood at home plate.
I knew that field.
I knew that girl.
“The Ghost,” I whispered.
When we were children, a man on a motorcycle used to park across the road from Kayla’s softball games.
He never came closer.
He never waved.
He simply watched from a distance before disappearing when the game ended.
Kayla had decided he was a secret agent.
I’d told her he was a vampire.
She’d been terrified of motorcycles for an entire week.
Ray stared at the photograph.
“Every game,” he said quietly. “Every school recital. Every graduation ceremony.”
He swallowed.
“I stood at the back of the gym when she graduated. I never went up to her. I never introduced myself. I kept my promise.”
