“What promise?”
“I don’t know.”
“You and Rosie have any childhood hiding places?”
“Dozens.”
“Think.”
I walked through the house while rain began tapping against the windows.
Where did I keep a broken promise?
My bedroom?
The attic?
The cedar box containing our mother’s jewelry?
Then I saw the framed photograph above the fireplace.
Rosie and me beside a lake, ages twelve and eleven. We wore matching red life jackets. I had one arm around her shoulders.
The summer before that picture, I had promised I would never swim without her.
Two weeks later, I went to a pool party hosted by girls who refused to invite Rosie.
She found out.
She did not speak to me for three days.
I lifted the frame.
Nothing.
Daniel checked the backing.
“No compartment.”
Another memory surfaced.
When Rosie was fourteen, she made me promise I would never read her diary.
