Chapter 6: Her Chin

I found Rafe in the carriage house kitchen at five, making coffee in a black T-shirt.

I held up the photograph.

"Where did you get this?"

He didn't turn around.

"It was in my father's toolbox," he said. "I found it the year he died."

"Who took it?"

"I don't know."

"Rafe."

"I don't know who took it. I know whose coat that is on her arm."

He turned then, and his face was grey and tired.

"It's yours," he said. "You were about to turn four."

I had to sit down on a kitchen chair.

For twenty-three years I had held on to one picture in my head, a dark pier and a yellow coat.

I had thought I'd invented it.

"You knew who I was at the gala," I said.

"Not at the gala. I knew when I saw the ring."

"And last night?"

"Last night I knew."

"And you still came to my door."

"I came to your door because I couldn't stay away from it," Rafe said. "That has nothing to do with the photograph."

I stared at him.

I wanted to believe that so badly it frightened me.

"What happened at the pier?" I said.

"I can't tell you yet."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Can't without losing the people who still depend on me not telling." His voice cracked on the last word. "Give me a few days."

"You were a child."

"I was eleven."

He said it flatly, and something in my chest turned over.

"Eleven," I repeated. "You were a boy."

"And a coward for twenty-three years. Believe me, I've counted."

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