The Cross Family
This moon was nothing like that, and yet something in her ribs recognized its shape with the shock of a smell from childhood.
Casey reached into his jacket and produced a folded paper—creased, soft at the edges as if it had been carried too long. He smoothed it between his hands—big hands that didn’t know how to be delicate—and held it out. “This is something else,” he muttered. “A little… okay, it’s a lot.” He spread the paper on the table. It was a photograph, too, older, grainer: a hospital room. A tired, radiant woman propped up against pillows. A man with a jaw not unlike Alexander’s bent over her shoulder, eyes on the bundle in her arms. Someone had scrawled names on the white border i