Benjamin continued.
“She looks young. Maybe twenty.”
My pulse quickened.
“And she’s holding something.”
“What?”
Benjamin fell silent.
“Benjamin?”
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
“A baby.”
I looked down at the faded photograph of my mother holding a newborn.
September 1987.
Two years after the night beneath the bleachers.
Two years after the promise.
“That can’t be.”
“I know.”
“August 1985 was two years before the baby was born.”
“I know.”
“Then it isn’t the same baby.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
“Didn’t?”
“Hannah…”
I heard paper rustling.
“There’s another photograph underneath the first one.”
My mouth went dry.
“What photograph?”
“This one is dated September 1987.”
“Benjamin—”
“And the woman is in this one too.”
I looked at Lucas.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it Marianne?”
“No.”
“My mother?”
“No.”
“Douglas’s mother?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
