Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“It was shaped like a sliver of a new moon,” George said from the table.
“It was always there,” I said. “Even when she was a baby, it was the first thing the nurse pointed out to us.”
Patrick shook his head quickly, his fingers clutching the pocket watch even harder. “The camera was too far away, Grandma. Or maybe she grew out of it.”
“A birthmark like that does not wash away, Patrick,” Clara said.
“We need the old pictures,” I said.
“They are in the living room,” George said.
I walked out of the kitchen and into the quiet of the living room, where the air smelled of old paper and beeswax. The large oak hutch stood against the far wall, its glass doors reflecting the empty sofa.
I opened the bottom drawer, which slid out with a heavy wooden scrape. Inside were four blue leather albums, their corners worn down to the grey cardboard beneath.
I pulled out the third album, the one marked with the years of the twins’ childhood.
