My lungs seized.

The room spun slowly around me.

Because there was only one way that ragdoll could be in a photograph from forty-five years ago, in the hand of a little girl in a yellow raincoat, standing beside a young Harrison and a dark-haired woman I did not recognize.

There was only one little girl in the world who had ever held that particular ragdoll.

“No,” I whispered, and the parchment shook so violently in my grip that it rustled in the silent room.