The boy's hands trembled.
On the screen was a photograph of a receipt from a pawnshop.
Beside it was another photograph showing several pieces of jewelry arranged on a kitchen table.
Marcus recognized one of the rings.
Then a bracelet.
Then the corner of a velvet jewelry box he hadn't seen in months.
Caleb swallowed.
"I took pictures because I thought she was going to throw them away."
Vanessa lunged toward the phone.
Ava stepped between her mother and her brother.
"Stop, Mom!"
The little girl's voice cracked.
Vanessa stopped.
Marcus stared at all three children.
Nia was crying silently.
Caleb held the phone against his chest.
And Ava stood with both hands out, trying to keep her mother from taking it.
For the first time since Marcus entered the store, he understood that the children hadn't simply been shopping.
They had been living with a secret.
One that involved his late wife's belongings, his daughter's fear, and the woman he'd trusted to care for them.
He looked toward Vanessa.
His voice became so quiet that she had to lean forward to hear it.
"Tell me what you did with her mother's things."
Vanessa stared.
Then her face hardened.
"You have no idea what it's like taking care of that girl."
Marcus didn't move.
Across the counter, the cashier stopped scanning.
The store's security supervisor approached from the nearby aisle after noticing the disturbance.
And Nia, who had spent months learning how to stay quiet, finally raised her head.
"Dad?"
Marcus turned immediately.
She looked at the necklace in his hand.
Then whispered, "There's something else she took."
Vanessa's face went white.
Four years before the department store confrontation, Marcus had stood in a hospital room holding the hand of the woman he loved.
His wife had been thirty-four, with warm brown eyes, a gentle laugh, and a habit of touching his arm whenever she wanted him to stop worrying. She worked as an elementary school art teacher and believed almost any difficult conversation could become easier if someone was willing to listen without interrupting.
She was also Nia's favorite person in the world.
When Nia was younger, the two of them spent Sunday afternoons drawing at the kitchen table. They filled notebooks with imaginary houses, gardens, animals, and little fashion designs that Nia insisted would one day become real clothes.
Her mother encouraged every idea.
Even the impossible ones.
Especially the impossible ones.
Then came the diagnosis.
At first, the illness appeared manageable.