My mother.
Alive.
Standing beside the old sedan.
The image had been taken on the night she died.
She wore a dark coat.
My father stood several feet away.
His brother was near the driver’s door.
Underneath the photograph was a message.
Your father still hasn’t told you everything. Ask what your mother had in her purse.
My skin went cold.
I showed my father.
He stood immediately.
“Who sent that?”
“I don’t know.”
He took his phone and called his brother.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
My grandmother came downstairs.
“What happened?”
I showed her.
She stared at the photograph.
“I’ve never seen this.”
My father zoomed in.
“How was this taken?”
Then I noticed the reflection.
A storefront window behind them.
Someone had taken the image from across the parking lot.
“Who was watching them?” I asked.
My father looked terrified.
Another message arrived.
Your stepmother has the rest.
8
We called the police again.
This time things moved differently.
The combination of the previous night’s incident, the old crash, the financial messages, and the anonymous photograph made them take the situation more seriously.
My father’s attorney arrived before nine.
He advised everyone to stop discussing the old accident until he could understand the records.
I refused.
“You can tell Dad to stay quiet. You don’t represent me.”
The attorney looked at my father.
My father nodded.
“She’s right.”
My grandmother almost smiled.
By ten thirty, an officer contacted my stepmother.
She said she was staying with a friend.
She denied having additional photographs.
Then she stopped answering calls.
My father’s brother finally returned his call.
He claimed he had not sent the message.
“Who took the picture?” I asked through speakerphone.
“I don’t know.”
“Was someone following you that night?”
“No.”
My father said, “Think.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Who else knew where we were?”
Silence.
Then the brother said, “The bookkeeper.”
My father looked at me.
“What bookkeeper?”
His brother sounded uneasy.
“The temporary guy.”
My father frowned.
“We didn’t have a temporary bookkeeper.”
“Yes, we did.”
“No.”
“Your wife hired someone to help copy invoices.”
My father stood.
“What?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
The brother swore.
“What was his name?” my father asked.
His brother gave one.
The attorney immediately started writing.
I didn’t care about the name.
I cared about the fact that my mother had secretly hired someone because she did not trust the company records.
“Why would he photograph them?”
My father’s brother answered.