ZARAMonday, 11:23amThe house was smaller than she expected.White clapboard, grey shutters, a porch that needed painting, trees close on three sides. It sat at the end of a dirt road off a county route she wouldn't have found without him. No neighbours visible. No sound except wind in the trees and somewhere a bird she couldn't name.He unlocked the front door and she stepped inside.Closed rooms. Old wood. Something faintly floral that had been there so long it had become part of the walls. A lamp with a yellowed shade. A couch with a blanket folded on it. Bookshelves floor to ceiling. Photographs on the mantel.She went to the photographs.Marguerite younger, the amber beads already there, standing in a garden with a man who had Callum's height and a woman who had his eyes. A boy in the corner of the frame, maybe seven, not looking at the camera. Looking at something off to the left with complete attention.She pointed. You, she said.Yes.What were you looking at.A dog, he said.
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