Jamie squeezed his eyes shut.
“In the garage.”
My hands went cold.
“What garage?”
He looked up.
“Dad’s garage.”
I froze.
Our father had owned an auto repair shop.
It burned down when I was twelve.
Jamie had been seven.
The police called it an electrical fire.
Dad disappeared three months afterward.
And we were told he had abandoned us.
But Jamie was still speaking.
“He asked me if I saw the box.”
“What box?”
“The one under the car.”
I stared at him.
Then he whispered, “I told him I didn’t.”
“Did you?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“What was in the box?”
Jamie’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know. I only saw the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“Of Mom.”
I frowned.
“Of Mom?”
“And another lady.”
He hesitated.
“She looked like Claire.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“That isn’t possible. Claire would have been a teenager then.”
