Perhaps thirteen or fourteen.
But the smile—
I knew that smile.
Benjamin had inherited it from Grant.
One side of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the other.
He used to hate it.
I used to tell him it was the most beautiful smile in the world.
Now that same smile stared back at me from a photograph taken years after his supposed death.
“That’s my son,” I whispered.
Rebecca placed the photograph on the table.
“Emily, I need to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“Does Benjamin have any distinctive marks?”
I nodded immediately.
“A small crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow.
He fell against a coffee table when he was four.”
Rebecca studied the photograph.
The boy’s hair partially covered his forehead.
But beneath it, just visible, was a pale curved mark.
She looked at me.
“We need to verify his identity.”
“Where is he?”
“We’re tracing the documents now.”
