She picked it up.

It was a beach — someplace warm, some other country, late afternoon light.

Harrison was in it, maybe five years younger, laughing at something out of frame, which was a thing she had never once seen him do.

His arm was around a woman.

Maya stood in the study of the house on Ellerby Lane and looked at the woman who had stood in her living room in her green dress six weeks earlier and poured wine and laughed and said she’s not coming out.

The photograph fell out of her hand.