The woman was holding a little girl.
Behind them was a house with a familiar stone entrance.
My house.
But the photograph appeared to have been taken years before I met David.
Mara turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
**David, Emma, and our little girl. Christmas 2015.**
I stared at the photograph.
David had told me he had never been married.
He had said he had no children.
Mara whispered, “Mrs. Mercer, I think you need to see this.”
Then she turned the photograph over again.
Beneath the handwriting was a second line, written in red ink.
**If anything happens to me, investigate what happened to his first wife.**
For several seconds, neither Mara nor I moved.
The photograph remained between her fingers.
David.
A woman.
A little girl.
And a message suggesting that his first wife had feared for her life.
I looked at Mara.
“Do you know who she is?” she whispered.
