My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“He asked me to come to his office.”
“What happened?”
Trevor swallowed.
“He showed me something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“What photograph?”
He looked at me.
And said:
“A photograph of you when you were six years old.”
I didn’t understand.
“What does that have to do with Paisley?”
“Everything.”
He walked toward the kitchen.
I followed.
He opened a drawer and removed an envelope.
My name was written on it.
Not my married name.
My childhood name.
The handwriting belonged to my father.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
I recognized the house immediately.
My childhood home.
Except something was wrong.
In the photograph, I was standing beside my father.
I was six years old.
And behind us stood my mother.
I stared at her face.
Then at the background.
There was a small white door beneath the staircase.
