Page 48

My hand stills over the photograph before I force myself to place it aside.

Look for evidence.

Beneath the photos are letters, hospital bracelets, a pressed flower from a trip to Charleston, and a small silver bracelet Clara wore often before Ivy was born. Ordinary things. Painful because they’re ordinary.

Then I find an envelope. It’s cream-colored, unmarked, and tucked beneath a stack of folded tissue paper at the bottom of the box. The paper has yellowed slightly at the edges, but the seal is already broken. Clara opened it before hiding it here.

Inside are three items. A photograph, a bank receipt, and a handwritten note. I pick up the photograph first. Clara stands younger than I ever knew her, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, outside a building in New York. Her hair is longer, her face thinner, and her smile is absent. Someone has cut the photograph unevenly along the right side, removing whoever stood beside her. Only the edge of a woman’s dark sleeve remains.

The bank receipt is next. There’s no name, only a transfer confirmation from an institution I recognize because men in my world use banks like that when they want distance between money and origin. The date is two months before Clara appeared in Savannah.

The note is last. The handwriting is neat and precise.

Do not use the account unless there is no other choice. Do not post photographs. Do not tell anyone where you are. If they find you, leave again.

No signature. No explanation.

I read the note again, searching for something I missed. Clara had been afraid before she ever met me. Before our marriage. Before Ivy. Before the shooting that took her life and left me believing all danger had come from my side of the world.

I sit slowly in the chair behind my desk, the note held between my fingers.

For years, I believed Clara left her family because she wanted freedom. I believed she had built a quiet life in Savannah because she had chosen peace. I believed her privacy came from loving a man like me, knowing what my name carried, and wanting Ivy protected from it.

Now the contents of this box sit spread across my desk, and the story I’ve lived with for years begins to fracture. Clara didn’t only leave something behind. She was hiding. And whoever she feared may have finally found my daughter.

7

MAGGIE

I barely make it through the shelter doors before a seventy pound Labrador named Otis steals Jules's clipboard and takes off running.

“Otis!”

Jules’s voice echoes through the lobby loud enough to startle three volunteers, two cats, and one very skittish senior poodle wearing a cone. Otis barrels past the front desk with several pages of volunteer schedules hanging from his mouth, his big paws slipping on the tile before he regains his balance and launches himself toward the hallway leading to the adoption offices.

Two volunteers chase after him, which Otis clearly interprets as support for his poor choices because he picks up speed and disappears around the corner with his tail wagging like he just won a prize.

I stop just inside the entrance, one hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag, and stare at the madness unfolding in front of me. The shelter looks exactly like I imagined and nothing like I wanted. People move through the lobby carrying leashes, donation boxes, clipboards, and cleaning supplies. Dogs bark from the kennel wing. Cats complain from the adoption room like they’re annoyed by the concept of charity. Phones ring almost constantly from the front desk while three reporters linger nearby pretending they’re not hoping somebody accidentally says something worth putting on the evening news.

Jules comes around the corner at a fast walk, breathing hard, one hand braced against his hip and the other pointed down the hallway like he’s about to prosecute Otis in open court. His shirt is somehow still perfect, which feels insulting, considering the rest of the building looks like a tornado came through.

“Otis, if you don't bring your fluffy behind back here...” he hollers, then spots me and stops so fast his shoes squeak against the floor.

The relief on his face appears before he can cover it. His shoulders drop, his mouth presses together, and all the teasing leaves him. Then Otis reappears behind him carrying only half the paperwork, and Jules closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength he knows good and well he doesn’t possess.

“Please tell me this isn’t representative of how the mornin’ has gone,” I say.

Jules turns slowly and points at the dog as Otis races between us with the shredded volunteer schedule flapping from his mouth. “Worse.”

The sight is ridiculous enough to make me laugh. Otis skids near the supply room, where Rachel manages to grab the remains of the paperwork while another volunteer rewards him with a treat.

“That is absolutely sendin’ the wrong message,” Jules says, throwing both hands into the air.

Otis accepts his reward without remorse.

I crouch and scratch behind his ears when he trots back toward me, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good mornin’, menace.”

His tail thumps against my leg, and the shelter noise wraps around me in all its messy glory. Barking dogs, ringing phones, cages clinking, and paws tapping against the floor. For the first time since the shooting, a tiny part of me unclenches. Not enough to make me feel normal, but enough to let me breathe without feeling like my chest is full of stones.