It was Howard.
Even through the grainy darkness of the photograph, I recognized the slope of his shoulders, the expensive coat he wore to every family gathering, and the silver watch that always seemed too large for his wrist.
He was standing across the street from our house.
On the night my parents died.
I forgot how to breathe.
For a few seconds, the courtroom disappeared around me.
I was back on our front lawn, barefoot in the freezing grass, watching flames tear through the second-floor windows while firefighters held me back.
I could hear Vicky screaming.
I could hear glass exploding.
I could hear myself shouting for Mom and Dad until my throat bled.
And now Howard was standing in a photograph taken less than an hour before the fire.
“What is this?” Denise whispered.
Her voice no longer sounded confident.
The judge lifted his eyes from the photograph.
