Page 73

Back then I’d convinced myself I was finally honoring the promise I’d made to Celeste. I installed cameras, replaced locks, repaired security systems, and moved on to the next place because staying still hurt more than working.

I start looking past the buildings and focus on the people instead.

Every photograph tells a different story. Women stand outside shelters after we’d finished upgrading their security, children grin in front of doors that finally lock, and volunteers crowd around donated equipment, and I hover at the edge of each picture because I never feel like I belong in any of them.

I turn over another photograph, then another, searching faces instead of addresses. I barely remember most of their names.

Back then, every job gave me another place to keep moving, and every new stop kept my mind off the life I’d left behind. Now I can’t help wondering how many of these people knew Celeste long before I ever crossed their path.

My phone lights up beside the cold coffee.

Emma.

I stare at her name long enough for it to ring again before I answer.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks as soon as I pick up.

I glance around the office. “Is it that obvious?”

“You answered on the second ring, which usually means you’ve either been working or thinking.”

“Both.”

She lets the silence breathe instead of filling it, giving me room to decide how much I want to say. “What happened?”

“A weird package arrived this morning.” I pick up the photograph and study Celeste’s smile. “It’s actually the second one.”

She pauses. “Second?”

I lean back in my chair and start at the beginning, telling her about the children’s book that once belonged to Celeste, the note addressed to the girls, and how another envelope arrived today with an old photograph of Celeste standing outside a women’s shelter beside four women I don’t recognize.

“Mom identified the building as Haven House in Albany,” I continue as I slide the card beside the photograph. “’Every picture tells part of a story.’ Then it ends the same way as the first note.” My gaze settles on the final line. “‘Someone your mommy helped.’”

Emma goes quiet as she takes it in.

“I thought it was a one-off.” I meet Celeste’s smile again. “Then another package showed up, and now it feels like someone’s trying to tell us a story.”

“What do you think you’re supposed to see?” she asks.

My thumb follows the edge of the protective sleeve as my eyes move from Celeste to the women standing beside her.

“I always knew she volunteered,” I say. “She’d disappear for weekends, come home exhausted, and tell me the people she’d met mattered more than anything she’d done for them. I believed I understood that part of her life.”

I study the faces again.

“Now I’m looking at women who were important enough to end up in this photograph, and I can’t tell you a single one of their names.”

Emma doesn’t answer straight away, giving me room to keep talking.

“She knew everything about me. Every bad decision I made. Every scar I carried. I thought I knew her just as well.” I shake my head. “Maybe I only knew the parts she brought home.”

“Or maybe these women knew one piece of her,” Emma says. “You knew the woman who came home every night.”

I look back at Celeste’s smile. “Feels like I should’ve asked more questions.”

“You’re asking them now.”

I turn the card over one more time before setting it beside the photograph. “Mom thinks whoever sent these wants me to find Haven House.”