Not from eleven years ago.
Not from the airplane.
From yesterday.
Ethan walking Mia into school.
Taken from across the street.
Mia’s pink backpack clearly visible.
Ethan stopped breathing.
Victoria whispered, “Whoever buried what happened to Rachel knows I found you.”
His eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
“And now,” Victoria said, “they know exactly where your daughter is.”
Inside the house, Mia suddenly screamed.
Ethan spun toward the door.
The sound came again.
“Dad!”
He threw the door open and ran inside.
Mia stood in the kitchen staring at the window.
Something had been pushed through the mail slot.
A small padded envelope lay on the floor.
Ethan stopped.
Victoria entered behind him.
“Don’t touch it.”
Mia pointed.
“It has my name.”
Written across the front in black ink were three words:
