A picture.
In my mother’s hallway.
A faded painting of a red farmhouse with a white fence. It had hung there my entire childhood. My mother hated clutter, hated sentimental things, hated family photos. But she never removed that painting.
Not when she repainted the walls.
Not when she remodeled the kitchen.
Not when Madison threw a candle during a fight and smoke stained the frame black at the corner.
Behind the picture, Noah had said.
I called Harris at 3:12 a.m.
“I know where the list is.”
By dawn, agents had a warrant for the house.
I was not allowed inside, but Harris let me sit in his car across the street.
My mother’s house looked ordinary in the pale morning light.
White brick. Green shutters. A ceramic goose near the porch wearing a Thanksgiving ribbon. The same house where I had opened Christmas presents. The same driveway where Noah learned to ride his scooter. The same kitchen where my mother sliced apples with surgical precision and told me I was too emotional to be a good parent.
