Catherine's POV
Sienna slides the photograph across my kitchen table, and I know, the second I see it, exactly which lie I'm about to tell badly. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, tighter, as though the walls have inched closer just to eavesdrop on whatever comes next.
"Where did you get this?" I ask, buying time, my voice sharper than I intend, my fingers already itching to flip the photo face down before I've even fully looked at it.
"Your storage unit." She crosses her arms, chin lifted in a way that reminds me, painfully, of myself at her age. "I still have the key, remember? You gave it to me for emergencies. I figured this counted."
I study her face, the careful stillness of it, the way she's clearly rehearsed this moment on the drive over. There's an intensity in her eyes I've
