Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“The paper is too thick,” I said. “And look at the backing.”
I turned the photo over to show him. It had a matte gray finish with a tiny serial number printed in silver ink along the bottom edge.
“We need to check the rest of the box,” George said.
I reached back into the white cardboard box. Beneath the velvet liner lay a single piece of blue-lined legal paper, folded twice into a tight square.
My fingers felt cold as I unfolded the paper on the laminate tabletop. The handwriting was done in thick, block letters with a black felt-tip marker.
Patrick leaned in so close his breath warmed my forearm.
“Is there a name?” Patrick asked.
“No,” I said. “Just numbers.”
George took the photo from Patrick and walked toward the back porch, where the morning light was stronger. I followed him out, leaving Clara and Vince in the kitchen with the boy.
The morning air was damp, carrying the faint smell of river mud from the southern edge of our property. George held the Polaroid up to the window pane, squinting through his glasses.
