“When did you find out she was alive?” I asked quietly.
Mara pulled back, wiping her face. “Three weeks ago.”
“What? Did she contact you?”
She nodded toward the shelf above the washer. “There’s a box up there. I hid it.”
Inside the box was an envelope, worn soft at the edges. There was no return address. Inside was a card from a woman named Claire—and tucked behind it, a photo.
A photo of Calla.
Older. Thinner. Smiling beside a man I didn’t recognize.
“She sent this to you?”
Mara nodded. “She found me on Facebook. She said she was sick. That she wanted to explain before it got worse. She said she needed to see me.”
“And now she wants to talk?”
