And someone still had access to those photographs.
The answer came from my grandmother.
“There was a safety deposit box.”
My father stared at her.
“What?”
“She had one.”
“Where?”
“At a bank near my old house.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“She opened it in her maiden name.”
“Is it still there?”
My grandmother’s expression changed.
“I closed it after she died.”
“What was inside?”
“Documents. Jewelry. A little cash.”
“Photographs?”
She thought.
“An envelope.”
“What happened to it?”
“I brought everything home.”
My heart began pounding.
“Where is it now?”
She looked at me.
“My attic.”
We left immediately.
11
The envelope was inside a cardboard box labeled with my mother’s first initial and the year she died.
My grandmother had preserved everything.
Bank statements.
Medical paperwork.
Old tax documents.
Two concert tickets.
A grocery list.
Three rolls of undeveloped film.
And a sealed envelope.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens.
The construction office.
Invoices laid across a desk.
Vehicles.
My father’s brother entering a building.
My stepmother’s sister meeting him outside a diner.
Then the fundraiser.
There was my future stepmother.
Young.
Smiling.
Standing less than ten feet from my mother.
They had been in the same room twelve years before my father claimed they first met.
My father held the photograph with both hands.
“She knew who I was.”
My grandmother said, “Apparently.”
“But why marry me?”
No one answered.
Then I found another photograph.
It had been taken through a windshield.
My father’s brother stood beside the old sedan.
My mother was visible near the passenger door.
My father stood behind them.
Same clothing as the anonymous image.
Same night.
On the back my mother had written:
If he drives, I am calling Mom to get me.
My throat closed.
She had known.
She had almost stopped it.
Then another photograph.
My father’s brother talking to my future stepmother’s sister.
In a parking lot.
Two hours before the crash.
The brother stared at the photo when we sent it to him.
“I forgot.”
My father exploded.
“How do you forget meeting the woman helping you steal from our company?”
“She wasn’t helping me steal.”
“Then what was she doing?”
The answer came slowly.
“Collecting.”
The room went silent.
His brother finally told the entire story.
He had developed a gambling debt.
At first small.
Then enormous.
The people he owed money to used legitimate-looking shell businesses to receive payments.
My stepmother’s older sister handled one of those businesses.