For illustrative purposes only
Part 3 — “Grandma, That’s Him”
Ellie was still staring at David’s face.
Then she touched the picture with one finger.
“That’s him.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“That man.”
I smiled, assuming I had misunderstood her.
“What man?”
“The man at my school.”
My smile disappeared.
Ellie continued casually, completely unaware that my heartbeat had suddenly become painfully loud.
“He helps clean the cafeteria after lunch. Sometimes he gives me an extra dessert.”
I stared at her.
“Ellie, this picture was taken forty-two years ago.”
She looked from me to the photograph.
“He looks older now.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, something cold moved through me.
“Why do you think it’s the same person?”
She frowned.
“Well… maybe he’s his dad or something.”
“That would make more sense.”
I tried to sound calm.
I failed.
Then Ellie added, “He asked about you.”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“What did you say?”
“He asked if my grandma was named Laura.”
The attic suddenly seemed airless.
“What else?”
“He asked if you went to Westbrook High.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I thought you did.”
I swallowed.
“What’s his name?”
“Tom, I think.”
Tom.
Not David.
Of course not David.
David had been dead for forty-two years.
Photographs didn’t grow old.
People did.
I forced myself to breathe.
Then Ellie leaned closer to the photograph.
“He has that same little moon mark too.”
I turned sharply toward her.
“What moon mark?”
She pointed above David’s left eyebrow.
There it was.
A faint crescent-shaped scar.
David had gotten it when he was sixteen after crashing Charlie’s bicycle into a fence.
It was so small that most people never noticed it.
But I remembered.
I remembered sitting beside him afterward, teasing him about his terrible riding skills.
I remembered tracing the mark lightly once it healed.
I closed the album.
“We’re going downstairs.”
Ellie looked confused.
“But we’re not done.”
“I am.”
She followed me toward the attic stairs before suddenly gasping.
“Wait!”
She ran back to her backpack.
“I forgot. He gave me something yesterday.”
My entire body tightened.
“Who?”
“The man at school. Tom.”
She dug through the front pocket.
“He said you would know what it meant.”
Then she placed something in my hand.
The instant I saw it, I felt the blood drain from my face.
A red pocketknife.
One blade was broken.
And scratched into the handle were two letters.
L.A.
My initials.
I knew that knife.
David’s father had given it to him when he started working in the family hardware store. David carried it almost everywhere.
Then, shortly before the fire, he lost it.
He told me he had lent it to Charlie while they were fixing a bicycle.
Charlie always said he had given it back.
Wrapped around the knife was a folded piece of paper.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
There was a phone number.
And a message.
Call me. What happened all those years ago isn’t what you were told. You should ask questions about your own family.
The attic tilted beneath me.
Ellie touched my arm.
“Grandma?”
“I’m okay.”
She stared at my face.
“You don’t look okay.”
She was right.
I wasn’t.
Part 4 — The Man Named Tom
I called the number.
A man answered almost immediately.
“Laura?”
My grip tightened around the phone.
The voice was wrong.
Too young.
Not David.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Tom.”
“Where did you get this knife?”
Silence.
Then he said quietly, “I’m not David.”
“I know that.”
Another pause.
“David was my uncle.”
I sat heavily on the bottom stair.
Tom explained that his mother was Nancy—David’s older sister.
Suddenly, the resemblance made sense.
“Ellie thought you were him,” I said.
“I’ve heard that before. My grandmother always said I looked like him.”
“And the mark above your eyebrow?”
“A birthmark. Apparently it’s almost the same shape as his scar.”