The locked basement.
The bruises on her wrists.
The stolen bank cards.
And the photographs discovered in Alex's backpack.
When I showed Mom her own picture, she turned pale.
“Where did they get this?”
“We don't know.”
She stared at the image.
It showed her standing beside the rose-covered gate outside the house.
The photograph had been taken recently.
I could tell because she was wearing the green cardigan I'd bought her for her birthday the previous month.
Mom sat down heavily.
“Emma, there's something I need to tell you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
She looked toward the window.
“Mrs. Wilson and I haven't just been neighbors all these years.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Mom stood and walked toward the old wooden cabinet beside the dining table.
From its bottom drawer, she removed a faded photograph.
Seven women stood together beneath the branches of an enormous oak tree.
