Hannah slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a folded card. A photo slipped into her lap, and she picked it up slowly.
“Mom.” She frowned. “This is me. From three days ago. It looks like the same photo you took of me while I was wearing this apron at the coffee shop on Wednesday.”
Something about that envelope made me worry.
I leaned over her shoulder. It was Hannah, mid-laugh, wiping down a table by the front window. Someone had taken it from across the street, close enough to catch the little silver hoop she’d started wearing that same morning.
“Did you make this?” my daughter asked me. “Is this some kind of surprise?”
“No, sweetheart.” I quickly checked my phone and saw a similar picture. “I’ve never seen that one before,” I said softly.
Someone had taken it.
She opened the card. Her hands were steady until her eyes moved down the page, and then they weren’t.
