Chapter 11: Seven Photographs

The safe was behind the morning-room portrait of Calla's grandfather, which was where Calla said it had always been.

"I found it when I was nine," Calla whispered. "I was looking for a place to hide a hamster."

It was four in the morning, and the house was dark and cold around them.

Yvette held the flashlight.

"Do you know the code?"

"Grandmother uses my birthday. She thinks it is sweet." Calla spun the dial with her tongue between her teeth. "It is not sweet right now."

The safe opened with a heavy click.

Inside were bundles of paper, a jeweler's box, and one thick leather folder tied with black ribbon.

Yvette lifted out the folder and untied it on the morning-room table.

The first thing in it was a photograph.

A woman in her twenties, with brown eyes and a scar through her left eyebrow, was looking at the camera with no expression at all.

Yvette knew that face.

She had worn it for eleven months and died in it on a bridge.

"Who is that?" Calla asked.

"Me."

She turned the photograph over.

On the back, in a firm, small hand, someone had written a date and a note.

*Arrived. Brown eyes. Watching.*

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