Sunscreen.
A paperback.
Then she reached into a narrow inner pocket.
She pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.
Inside it was a photograph.
My hands started trembling before she gave it to me.
It was Gia.
Older.
Not much older.
Maybe 18.
Maybe 19.
She was sitting on a porch step with her knees pulled against her chest.
Her hair was shorter.
She looked thinner.
But she was smiling.
Not the sarcastic smile she used when she wanted to annoy me.
A real smile.
I covered my mouth.
« Oh, God. »
Dana sat quietly.
On the back, in blue ink, someone had written two words.
Still here.
I touched the handwriting.
It was Gia’s.
I knew it instantly.
« I should have turned this in, » Dana whispered. « I didn’t know. »
I couldn’t answer.
For 16 years, I had imagined graves.
Hospitals.
Roadsides.
Locked rooms.
I had imagined every terrible thing a mother can imagine.
