Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
Vince looked at the white box on the table, his eyes darting to Patrick, who was still clutching the silver pocket watch. “What is that?”
“It was tied to the only stalk left standing,” I said.
Patrick leaned over the table, his fingers hovering just above the satin. “We need to open this right now.”
I reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out the long silver scissors Clara used for her sewing. I slipped the cold metal blade beneath the white satin ribbon.
The sharp edges of the scissors sliced clean through the fabric, and the ribbon fell away.
I lifted the lid of the white cardboard box, my thumb catching on the rough paper edge. Inside, resting on a small square of dark velvet, lay a glossy Polaroid photograph.
I picked it up by the white border, careful not to smudge the surface. The girl in the picture had light brown hair that fell over her shoulders in soft, damp-looking waves, and she was wearing a yellow sleeveless dress.
