“No,” she warned him.
“Oh, yes.”
He showed me a picture.
Marissa stood outside beside a dead campfire, her hair blowing across her face, laughing with her eyes nearly closed.
Her birthmark was fully visible.
Her birthmark was fully visible.
No careful angle.
No adjusted lighting.
Nothing hidden.
I looked at my daughter.
Years ago, she would have grabbed the phone.
“Let me see.”
“Delete that.”
“Is it awful?”
That night, she kept eating.
“That picture is evidence of a crime,” she said.
“You killed the fire,” Graham teased.
Years ago, she would have grabbed the phone.
“It was raining.”
“You poured half a bottle of lighter fluid on wet wood.”
“Because you said it needed encouragement, Gray.”
“I said air.”
I laughed.
And yet something about the photograph stayed with me.
***
After dinner, Marissa stood.
“I forgot the cheesecake.”
“You made cheesecake?” I asked.
Something about the photograph stayed with me.
“It’s upstairs in the little fridge.”
Graham stared at her.
“You hid cheesecake from me?”
“I know you.” She kissed the top of his head as she passed. “I’ll be right back.”
Her footsteps disappeared upstairs.
Graham waited until we heard her bedroom door open.
“I’ll be right back.”
Then he placed his fork down.
The warmth disappeared from his face.
He leaned toward me and lowered his voice.
