The photo is grainy.
Taken from across the hospital driveway.
I’m in it.
Hair disheveled.
Hospital bracelet still clinging to my wrist.
Face swollen from crying.
Adrian’s arm is around me. But it’s loose. Hesitant. Like he doesn’t know how to hold something already broken.
The timestamp reads: 11:47 PM.
The night we lost our son.
I stare at it for a long time, unable to breathe.
“I didn’t see anyone,” I whisper.
“You wouldn’t have,” Adrian replies. His voice is controlled. Too controlled. “We were barely standing.”
He enlarges the image. Zooms into the reflection on a parked SUV behind us. A silhouette. A person holding a phone. Watching. Recording.
My stomach turns.
“That wasn’t paparazzi,” I say quietly.
“No.”
“There was no press that night.”
“No.”
This wasn’t exposure.
