He stopped.
Helen turned toward me.
“There’s something in his study you need to see.”
“Holly, please don’t be frightened.”
“Holly…” Arthur panicked.
“No,” I said. “Show me.”
***
His study smelled of old paper and furniture polish.
On the desk sat a small cardboard box.
“Show me.”
Arthur looked at it as though he’d hoped I’d never notice it.
Helen opened the lid.
Inside were yellowed envelopes, newspaper clippings, and photographs.
She lifted one photograph from a protective sleeve.
Helen opened the lid.
Then she handed it to me.
The photograph showed a teenage girl beneath a bright salon lamp, her hair pinned back and her hands clasped in her lap.
I knew her before I recognized the dress.
The photograph showed a teenage girl.
It was me at 17 in Chicago.
I sat down and ran my thumb along the photograph’s worn edge.
My mother had taken me to a beauty consultation at a department store.
