The First Doubt

Sarah didn't wait for Elena's reaction. She turned and walked out the front door, slipping into the night just as the officer's heavy boots thudded back down the stairs.

“Everything seems fine, ma’am,” the officer said, tipping his cap to Elena. “Mr. Vance was a little confused, but your brother has him settled. We’ll be going.”

Elena nodded mutely. She watched the cruiser pull away, the red tail lights disappearing into the dark, leaving her alone in the foyer with the echo of Sarah’s confession.

*I was wearing it.*

It wasn't possible. Elena’s memory was a fortress, built brick by brick over thirty years. She remembered the red coat. She remembered her mother wearing it as she was led away in handcuffs. She remembered the flash of red wool against the gray police uniform.

But memory is malleable. Especially the memory of a twelve-year-old girl in trauma.

Julian came down the stairs, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “Idiot cops,” he muttered. “Dad’s fine. Just threw a tantrum because I took his favorite pen.”

He looked at Elena. “Where’s Sarah?”

“Gone,” Elena said. “She forgot her charger.”

Julian frowned. “Right. Look, I’m going to crash in the guest room tonight. I don’t trust him alone.”

“The guest room?” Elena’s stomach dropped. The shoebox was gone, but the room still smelled of old paper and secrets. If Julian found anything…

“Yeah. Why? You got a problem with that?”

“No,” Elena said quickly. “It’s just… the bed isn't made.”

“I’ll manage.” He brushed past her, heading for the stairs.

Elena waited until she heard the guest room door close. Then she ran to the living room.

She needed to see the photo album.

The family albums were kept in a glass-fronted cabinet by the fireplace, a shrine to the Vance family history. Leather-bound, gold-embossed. *Vance Family 1985-1990.* *Vance Family 1990-1995.*

She pulled out the second volume. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

She flipped through the pages. Christmas 1990. A month after the arrest. A picture of Elena and Sarah in matching velvet dresses, standing in front of the tree. Their smiles were tight, forced.

She flipped back. October 1990.

There were no pictures from October. The pages were blank, the photo corners empty. Arthur had purged the month.

She went back further. September 1990. The school picnic.

There.

A photo of Sarah and Elena on the swing set. Sarah was wearing a denim jacket. Elena was wearing a yellow sweater.

She kept flipping. August. July.

Where was the red coat?

It was a winter coat. They wouldn't be wearing it in September.

Elena closed the album. She looked around the room. The mantelpiece was crowded with framed photos. Graduation portraits. Wedding photos.

And one small, silver-framed snapshot tucked in the back.

It was a candid shot. Arthur must have taken it. It was blurry, the lighting poor.

It showed the front hallway. The door was open, revealing the dark night outside. In the foreground, a figure stood with their back to the camera. Small shoulders. Dark hair.

Wearing a red wool peacoat.

Elena grabbed the frame. She squinted at the photo.

The figure was small. Child-sized. But Meredith had been petite. From the back, in a bulky coat, it could have been either of them.

But there was something else.

Sticking out of the coat pocket was a bright pink object. A toy.

A Tamagotchi.

Meredith didn't play with Tamagotchis. Sarah did. Sarah was obsessed with them in 1990.

Elena pried the back off the frame. She pulled the photo out.

She needed to be sure. She needed to see the date. Arthur always dated his photos.

She flipped it over.

In Arthur’s jagged, distinctive scrawl: *October 15, 1990. The Departure.*

The date on the back of the photo was the day of the arrest.