“She d!ed five years ago.”

“I know what you believe.”

The sentence seemed to freeze the room.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Anthony walked toward the desk.

“He showed me something.”

“What?”

“A photograph.”

“Of who?”

“Catherine.”

“When?”

“He said it had been taken three months earlier.”

Maria stood.

“No.”

Anthony reached inside his coat again.

This time, he pulled out his phone.

He opened an old photograph and handed it to me.

The image was grainy.

Taken from the opposite side of a street.

A woman stood outside a small café.

Older.

Silver beginning to show in her hair.

But I recognized her immediately.

Even after twenty-eight years.

My mother.

Alive.

My knees nearly gave way.

Maria looked over my shoulder.

Her breath caught.

“That’s her.”

I checked the date embedded in the image.

Four years ago.

A year after Maria had buried the woman she believed was her mother.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Maria whispered.

Anthony nodded.

“I know.”

“Where was this taken?”

“Brooklyn.”

My pulse quickened.

“Gabriel took it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Anthony looked toward me.

“He had been following her.”

“Why?”

“Because somebody else was following her first.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Vincent?”

“Gabriel never told me.”

I stared again at the photograph.

My mother.

Alive four years earlier.

Possibly still alive now.

The foundation beneath my life shifted once more.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

At three fourteen in the morning.

Everyone looked toward it.

I answered.

Nobody spoke on the other end.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then breathing.

Faint.

A woman’s voice spoke my name.

“Daniel?”

Every hair along my arms rose.

I stood.

“Who is this?”

A pause.

Then five words.

“You finally opened my letter.”

My entire body turned cold.

Maria covered her mouth.

I couldn’t breathe.

The voice was older than I remembered.

But I recognized it.

Some part of me had always recognized it.

“Mom?”

Silence.