Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Look at the neck,” Clara said, pointing a fingernail at the small image of the girl in the yellow sleeveless dress. “Tell me what you see.”
I looked through the thick glass of the lens, the image of the girl’s collarbone magnifying until the grain of the Polaroid paper showed through.
“I see her collarbone,” I said, my voice deliberate. “The shirt collar is low enough to see her skin.”
“And do you remember her fourth birthday?” Clara asked.
“I remember,” I said. “We bought her the red tricycle.”
“And she fell on the gravel,” Clara said, her voice dropping even lower. “But before that, when she was in her bath, do you remember what I told you about her skin?”
I paused, looking at the smooth, unmarked skin of the girl in the photograph.
“You said she had her mother’s mark,” I said.
Patrick took two steps closer to the sink, his shoes dragging against the linoleum. “What mark?”
“She had a small dark crescent on her left collarbone,” Clara said, turning to face Patrick. “Right below the hollow of her throat.”
