Several had been frightened into leaving their homes.
One had been locked in a basement.
And the woman who had originally brought them together might have helped orchestrate their exploitation.
I stared at Agnes's face.
Then at Mrs. Wilson's.
Something about their closeness troubled me.
Not because I suspected Mrs. Wilson of anything.
But because she had trusted Agnes so deeply.
Perhaps that was why Agnes had been able to hurt her.
People rarely expect betrayal from someone who has shared their happiest memories.
I touched the edge of the photograph.
Then my eyes moved toward a tiny detail near the bottom.
Mrs. Wilson wore a necklace.
A simple silver chain with a small oval locket.
I'd seen that necklace before.
She wore it almost every day.
Even when gardening.
Even when baking.
Even during the neighborhood Christmas parties.
I remembered asking about it as a child.
She'd always smiled sadly and said it contained a memory she wasn't ready to share.
