Mr. Graves turned.
“What do you mean?”
“She went into the bathroom.”
My voice became smaller.
“She turned on the fan so I couldn’t hear her.”
Mr. Graves said nothing.
“But I heard her anyway.”
He looked away.
I continued.
“She kept saying she was sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“She said she should’ve protected me.”
Mr. Graves’s jaw tightened.
“Your mother has nothing to apologize for.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t know her.”
“No.”
He stared at the floor.
“Maybe I know more than you think.”
Before I could ask what he meant, the office door opened.
An elderly man entered carrying a thin leather folder.
“Mr. Graves.”
“Dr. Mercer.”
The man looked at me.
His expression changed.
He stopped walking.
“Where did you find her?”
I frowned.
“I found her in the lobby,” Mr. Graves said.
“No.”
Dr. Mercer was staring at me.
“I mean where did you find her?”
Mr. Graves’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
The doctor didn’t answer.
He looked at me again.
Then at my backpack.
Then at the eviction notice.
He whispered something I couldn’t hear.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Mr. Graves walked toward him.
“You recognize her.”
It wasn’t a question.
Dr. Mercer looked frightened.
“I haven’t seen that face in twelve years.”
My heart stopped.
“Twelve years?”
Mr. Graves closed the office door.
“Tell me.”
Dr. Mercer placed the leather folder on the desk.
“I need to be certain.”
“Certain of what?”
The doctor opened the folder.
Inside were several old documents.
Photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
Handwritten notes.
He pulled out one photograph.
It was faded and bent at the corners.
He placed it on the desk.
I stared at it.
A young woman stood outside a brick building.
She had dark hair.
Tired eyes.
And a little girl in her arms.
I leaned closer.
I knew that woman.
It was my mother.
But the little girl wasn’t me.
The child was much younger.
Maybe two years old.
I looked at Mr. Graves.
“Who is that?”
Nobody answered.
I looked again.
Then I noticed something.
The woman wasn’t smiling.
She was looking over her shoulder as though someone was following her.
Behind her stood a man.
His face had been scratched out with a black marker.
My stomach tightened.
“Why is my mom in that picture?”
Dr. Mercer slowly sat down.
“That’s what we’re trying to understand.”
Mr. Graves stared at the photograph.
“No,” he said.
“We already know why.”
The doctor looked at him.
“Then tell her.”
Mr. Graves’s face hardened.
“I need proof.”
“What proof?”
“The letter.”
Dr. Mercer went pale.
“I destroyed it.”
“You told me you did.”
“I did.”
“Then where is it?”
The doctor didn’t answer.
Mr. Graves slammed his hand against the desk.
“Where is the letter, Daniel?”
I jumped.
Dr. Mercer flinched.
Then he whispered:
“Someone found it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who found it?”
“I said I don’t know!”
The room fell silent.
