"Do you remember this?"
Jack stared at it.
Then smiled sadly.
"Very well."
"What happened that night?"
Jack's smile disappeared.
"Your mother and I had been fighting."
"About what?"
"Money."
"That's all?"
"No."
Claire waited.
Jack rubbed his hands together.
"Your mother had borrowed money from someone."
Claire's stomach dropped.
"Who?"
"I never knew his real name."
"What kind of person?"
"Someone dangerous."
Jack lowered his voice.
"He wasn't a businessman, Claire."
"What did he want?"
"Your mother's debt."
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand dollars."
Claire stared.
"That's why you fought?"
"Partly."
"What happened?"
Jack looked toward the window.
"I told your mother I would pay it."
"Then why didn't you?"
"I tried."
"Where did the money go?"
Jack looked at her.
"That's the question."
Claire frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I gave her the money."
"When?"
"The night before I disappeared."
Claire's heart stopped.
"You gave Mom twenty thousand dollars?"
"Yes."
"Then she said you were dead the next morning."
Jack nodded.
"I know."
Claire sat back.
"Where did you get that money?"
"I sold my repair shop."
Claire stared.
Her father had owned a small motorcycle repair business.
He had loved it.
It had been his entire life.
He sold it?
"For her?"
"For you."
Claire's eyes filled.
Jack looked down.
"I thought if I paid the debt, we could start over."
"What happened?"
"I went home."
"And?"
"You weren't there."
Claire frowned.
"I was asleep."
"No."
Jack shook his head.
"You weren't."
He looked at her.
"Your mother told me you were staying with her sister."
Claire's face went cold.
"I never stayed with Aunt Rose."
"I know that now."
Jack continued.
"I thought she had taken you away because she was angry."
"So you left?"
"No."
"Then what happened?"
Jack leaned forward.
"I went looking for you."
"And?"
"I was hit by a truck."
Claire's breath caught.
"The crash."
Jack nodded.
"I was unconscious for almost six months."
Claire stared at him.
"Six months?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"I don't know."
"When you woke up?"
"I asked for you."
"Who was there?"
"Nobody from home."
"Your family?"
"Dead."
"Friends?"
"I had one."
"Who?"
"Tom."
"What happened to him?"
Jack's eyes darkened.
"He told me your mother had taken you and moved."
"Where?"
"He didn't know."
Claire shook her head.
"Why didn't you contact the police?"
"I tried."
"And?"
"They told me there was no missing-child report."
Claire froze.
"What?"
Jack nodded.
"There was no report."
"But I was there."
"I know."
Claire's hands began trembling.
Her entire childhood had suddenly become a puzzle.
A puzzle with pieces that didn't fit.
Then Jack said something that made her blood run cold.
"Claire, I think someone wanted us separated."
She stared at him.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Then find out."
Jack looked into her eyes.
"I intend to."
The next day, Claire went to the address written on the paper.
She didn't tell Noah.
She didn't tell anyone.
The old Bennett house stood at the end of a quiet street.
It looked smaller than she remembered.
The paint had faded.
The garden was gone.
A new family lived there.
Claire stood outside the fence for several minutes.
Then an elderly man came out.
"Can I help you?"
Claire introduced herself.
The man's expression changed.
"Bennett?"
"Yes."
"Your mother was Margaret?"
Claire nodded.
"I knew her."
"You did?"
"Years ago."
Claire looked at the house.
"Did you know my father?"
The man went silent.
"What was his name?"
"Jack."
The man's face changed.
He looked around.
Then opened the gate.
"Come inside."
Claire followed.
His name was Harold.
He was seventy-eight.
He told her that he had lived next door for thirty years.
He remembered Claire as a little girl.
He remembered Jack.
And he remembered the night everything changed.
"Your mother came home around midnight," Harold said.
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Was she upset?"
"Terrified."
Claire's heart pounded.
"Why?"
"She was carrying a suitcase."
"What did she say?"
Harold hesitated.
"She said Jack was gone."
"He wasn't."
"I know."
"Did she know?"
Harold looked at her.
"I think she did."
Claire felt sick.
"What happened after that?"
"She packed the car."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know."
"Did she take me?"
Harold shook his head.
"No."
Claire froze.
"What?"
"Your mother left alone."
"Where was I?"
"Inside the house."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Claire stared at him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Harold stood and walked toward a cabinet.
He opened a drawer.
Inside were old envelopes.
He pulled one out.
"I kept this."
Claire took it.
Her name was written on the front.
CLAIRE
She opened it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
The handwriting belonged to her father.
Claire recognized it immediately.
Claire,
If you ever read this, please understand that I didn't leave you.
I tried to come back.
I will keep trying.
Love, Dad.
Claire began crying.
Harold looked away.
"There was another thing."
"What?"
"Your mother received a phone call that night."
"From whom?"
"I don't know."
"What did she say?"
"She said, 'He knows.'"
Claire looked up.
"Who knew?"
"I don't know."
"What else?"
Harold frowned.
"She said something about the photograph."
Claire's heart stopped.
"What photograph?"
"I don't remember."
"Try."
He closed his eyes.
"She said, 'If Jack finds the photograph, everything is over.'"
Claire stood perfectly still.
"What photograph?"
Harold shook his head.
"I don't know."
Claire left the house with the note.
She drove straight to Jack.