A twenty-six-year-old woman with gray-green eyes smiled up at the camera, holding a dark-haired four-year-old against her shoulder.

I traced the distinctive notched gap above the child’s left eyebrow with the wet tip of my thumb.

I stood under the pines looking at the nineteen eighty-nine photograph of my four-year-old self in Claire’s arms, both of us bearing the same eyebrow notch.

By nine the next morning, the oak filing cabinet in Frank’s home office was half emptied.

Cardboard folders were scattered across the linoleum, heavy with thirty years of hardware store tax schedules and property receipts.