My father went completely still.
“What night fire?” I asked.
He did not speak.
Dr. Vale’s voice changed.
“Richard. What night fire?”
My father reached into his coat with shaking hands and withdrew an old photograph, folded down the middle.
He placed it beside my mother’s letter.
The picture showed our old house with green shutters and lavender bushes by the steps.
Its windows were blackened.
Smoke stained the siding.
Firefighters stood in the yard.
Near the edge of the image, half-hidden behind an ambulance, stood a little girl in a yellow raincoat.
Me.
“I don’t remember this,” I whispered.
My father’s voice broke.
“I know.”
Dr. Vale leaned over the photograph, her face drained of color.
“Richard… this was the night Laura vanished with the archive copy.”
I looked up sharply.
“Vanished? You told me she died.”
My father’s eyes filled with grief so old it looked carved into him.
“She did,” he whispered. “Three months later.”
But Dr. Vale stared at him as if every truth had rearranged itself.
“No,” she said slowly. “Richard, Laura’s body was never recovered from that fire.”
My breath stopped.
The key in my palm felt suddenly warm.
