Chapter 1 - The Woman in the Photograph
When Angela invited me camping, I thought she was finally trying to become my family.
I was sixteen, which was old enough to know better and still young enough to hope anyway.
My mother had been gone for most of my life. My father, Daniel Mercer, married Angela when I was eleven. She wasn't openly cruel in front of him. That would have been easier.
Angela specialized in smaller things.
Forgetting to tell me when dinner plans changed.
Buying concert tickets for herself and Dad on my birthday weekend.
Calling me “independent” whenever she wanted an excuse to leave me out.
So when she announced that she wanted me to join a girls' weekend at Lake Crescent with four of her friends, Dad looked happier than I had seen him in months.
“Maybe you two can finally have some fun together.”
I said yes because of his face.
That was my first mistake.
Within twenty minutes of arriving, I realized why Angela had invited me.
I unloaded the SUV.
I assembled the folding table.
I carried firewood.
I prepared dinner while Angela, Karen, Michelle, Denise and Rebecca sat beside the lake drinking wine.
The next morning, Angela shook my tent at 6:42.
“Everyone wants coffee.”
By noon, I had cooked breakfast, cleaned the grill and hauled three bags of trash.
Then Karen watched me kneeling beside a basin of dirty dishes and laughed.
“Angela, you didn't bring a stepdaughter. You brought a maid!”
Everyone laughed.
I waited for Angela to correct her.
She lifted her cup.
“Well, it's good preparation for real life.”
Something inside me went quiet.
Not angry.
Finished.
That evening, Dad called.
Angela's voice instantly became warm.
“Hi, sweetheart!”
I kept washing dishes.
Then Dad said something I wasn't supposed to hear.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I put a little surprise in your pink bag.”
Angela's entire face changed.
“A surprise?”
Karen squealed.
“Jewelry!”
Angela hurried into her tent.
We heard zippers opening.
Then silence.
She emerged holding a sealed envelope.
Her face was white.
“Did you know about this?”
I frowned.
“Know about what?”
The envelope slipped from her fingers.
I bent down.
“DON'T TOUCH THAT!”
Too late.
A photograph had slid halfway out.
Angela stood beside my father.
But Dad looked younger.
Maybe thirty.
And beside him was another woman.
Dark auburn hair.
Green eyes.
A silver necklace shaped like a crescent moon.
I knew her.
Not personally.
From photographs.
My grandmother kept one on her fireplace.
My father kept another hidden inside his desk.
Her name was Claire Mercer.
My father's younger sister.
My aunt.
The woman who disappeared eighteen years ago.
I looked at Angela.
“Why do you have a picture of Aunt Claire?”
Karen stopped smiling.
Michelle slowly lowered her drink.
Angela snatched the photograph from me.
“It's nothing.”
“Dad put it in your bag.”
“He shouldn't have.”
“Why?”
Angela looked toward the trees as if somebody might be listening.
Then she whispered:
“Your father was never supposed to find her.”
My heart stopped.
“Find her?”
Angela realized her mistake.
I stood.
“Aunt Claire is alive?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I meant find the photograph.”
But her hands were trembling.
I grabbed my phone.
“I’m calling Dad.”
Angela seized my wrist.
“Lily, don't.”
That frightened me more than anything else.
Because Angela wasn't angry anymore.
She was terrified.
Then headlights appeared through the trees.
A vehicle rolled slowly into our campsite.
Angela looked at it.
Karen whispered:
“Who is that?”
Nobody answered.
A woman stepped out.
She was about fifty.
Dark auburn hair streaked with gray.
Around her neck was a silver crescent.
I looked from her to the photograph.
Same eyes.
Same face.
Older.
Angela whispered:
“Oh God.”
The woman stared directly at me.
Then she said:
“You must be Lily.”
I couldn't speak.
May you like
She looked at Angela.
“You should've told Daniel I was coming home.”
