Chapter 4 - THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
I didn't breathe.
I couldn't.
The farmhouse seemed to tilt around me.
I looked from the photograph to Dad.
Then back again.
“That isn't me.”
Dad's voice was quiet.
“Yes, it is.”
“I was seven.”
“You were four.”
My head shook.
“No.”
Dad stood.
“Evelyn, listen.”
“No.”
I stepped backward.
“You told me Michael was dead.”
“He disappeared.”
“You told me I was an only child.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“You were.”
“Then why am I standing next to him?”
He didn't answer.
The photograph showed a little girl with a crooked ponytail.
She was holding Michael's hand.
Grandpa stood behind them.
And the woman beside Michael was smiling.
I didn't recognize her.
But something about her face disturbed me.
She looked familiar.
Not like someone I knew.
Like someone I had spent years trying to remember.
Dad walked to the kitchen counter.
“There are things your mother and I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Then start.”
He took a long breath.
“Michael wasn't your biological uncle.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“He was your half-brother.”
The words landed slowly.
I looked at the photograph again.
The little girl.
Michael.
The woman.
My hands began shaking.
“You're saying Michael was my brother?”
Dad nodded.
“Your grandfather adopted him.”
“Why?”
“Because his mother couldn't care for him.”
“Who was his mother?”
Dad looked toward the window.
“Her name was Rebecca Hale.”
The name struck something inside me.
I didn't know why.
Then I remembered an old Christmas ornament.
A woman had written Rebecca on the back.
Grandpa had always refused to explain it.
“What happened to her?”
Dad sat down.
“She died.”
“When?”
“Not long after Michael disappeared.”
I looked at the photograph.
“And me?”
“You were born later.”
“So why am I in the picture?”
Dad's silence returned.
That silence made my stomach turn.
“You're lying again.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Dad reached into his wallet.
He pulled out a faded hospital photograph.
This one showed a newborn baby wrapped in a white blanket.
A nurse stood beside the crib.
The baby's wrist carried a tiny bracelet.
I recognized the number.
4-17.
Dad whispered,
“You were born April seventeenth.”
I stared at him.
My birthday.
April seventeenth.
I had always thought Grandpa's obsession with 4:17 was sentimental.
Now it felt like a warning.
“Why did Grandpa write 4-17 on everything?”
Dad rubbed his face.
“Because Michael disappeared on your birthday.”
My eyes filled.
“But I wasn't born yet.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“But your grandfather believed Michael's disappearance and your birth were connected.”
“Connected how?”
Dad didn't answer.
I walked to the old wooden chest.
I pulled out the children's drawing again.
There was something written on the back.
A child's handwriting.
Mom said don't tell Dad.
My blood ran cold.
“Whose handwriting is this?”
Dad looked.
His face changed.
“That's Rebecca's.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“She was an adult.”
“She wrote like that when she was frightened.”
I turned.
“Frightened of what?”
Dad's eyes moved toward the farmhouse door.
“Of Robert.”
My heart stopped.
“Your father?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
Dad looked ashamed.
“Because Robert wasn't always the man you know.”
I didn't know whether to believe him.
Then the front door opened.
Mom walked inside.
She stopped when she saw the photographs.
Her face changed.
“You found Michael.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Did you know I was in this photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Grandpa left the farmhouse to me because of this?”
Mom nodded.
“Then why did you sue me?”
She began crying.
“I didn't want the house.”
“What did you want?”
“To keep you away from it.”
The answer stunned me.
Dad looked at her.
“Margaret.”
She ignored him.
“Your grandfather made me promise.”
“Promise what?”
“That you would never learn what happened to Michael.”
I felt anger rising.
“You don't get to decide that.”
“I know.”
She reached into her purse.
She removed a small blue bracelet.
My breath caught.
It was identical to the one in the photograph.
“This belonged to you,” Mom whispered.
I took it.
Inside the clasp was a tiny engraving.
E.C. — M.C.
Evelyn Carter.
Michael Carter.
My fingers tightened around it.
“What happened to him?”
Mom looked at Dad.
Dad looked away.
Finally she whispered,
“Michael didn't disappear.”
The room went silent.
“He ran.”
“From what?”
Mom's voice broke.
“From someone who wanted him gone.”
“Who?”
She stared at me.
“Your father.”
Dad stood abruptly.
“That isn't true.”
Mom stepped back.
“You know it is.”
He shook his head.
“I never hurt him.”
“You didn't have to.”
I looked between them.
“What did you do?”
Dad's face hardened.
“I made one terrible decision when I was twenty.”
“What decision?”
He looked at the photograph.
“I put Michael in a car.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where did you take him?”
Dad opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, Mom's phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Her face went white.
I saw only one word before she turned it away.
MICHAEL.
May you like
Then she whispered,
“He knows you're here.”
