Chapter 2

The photograph fell out of the jacket three days later, and Wren's whole understanding of the night shifted.

She was in her apartment, a small two-bedroom in the city, half an hour from the estate. The jacket had hung on the back of her chair since the reception, the way she'd left it, the way she'd promised herself she'd deal with it later. She hadn't been able to bring herself to wash it — hadn't even been able to bring herself to fold it. It still smelled like her father, and that was a smell she wasn't ready to let go of yet.

She was reaching into the inside pocket for her phone when her fingers closed on something stiff and smooth. Paper. She pulled it out.

It was a photograph. A small glossy print, the kind you'd get from a drugstore development machine, edges slightly worn, as if it had been handled more than once. And for a moment, Wren couldn't breathe.

Theo. In his red hoodie. The same red hoodie he'd worn to the reception, the same blue shorts, the same white sneakers. He was sitting in the padded chair by the tall window — the same chair — his short black curls catching the chandelier light behind him. His face was turned away from the camera, turned toward the window, so you could see only the curve of his cheek, the soft line of his jaw, the small hands gripping the armrests.

And pinned to his chest was a sign.

Handwritten. Dark marker. Plain white paper, folded in half, the kind of thing you'd make in five minutes with a marker and a piece of printer paper.

It read: NOT A HALLOWAY.

The photograph shook in Wren's hand. She set it on the table, flat, and stared at it, and the room around her seemed to tilt.