Richie’s voice was soft. “You weren’t meant to know, Tanya. Not until now. That’s what they all decided, right?”
I nodded again, my chest aching.
That afternoon I called my mother, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles went white. “Mom, can you come over? Now. Please.”
She showed up twenty minutes later, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp as she stepped inside. She barely looked at me before her attention landed on the box sitting on the table.
“What’s going on, Tanya? Are the girls okay?”
“No, the girls are fine,” I replied. I slid the photo and letter toward her. “I found these under Mr. Whitmore’s apple tree.”
She reached for the photograph.
“Why were you digging in his yard?”
“He asked me to. After the funeral, I received a letter. He wanted me to know the truth.”
I watched her expression as she read. I watched the color drain from her face.
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