CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The door squeaked open and Lindy walked in. She sat on the bed beside him, the picture of their mother in her hands. “Tell me about her,” she said, and, as he had done so many times before, he started the story. Whether he spoke the truth or his imagination, it made no difference. He told their mother’s story, what little he knew.
He began the way he always did because it made her smile. “Our mom was beautiful, like you.”
She reacted different this time. The smile never came. Instead, she sat quietly, her face expressionless. She normally asked dozens of questions about how she and her mother resembled each other. Did Mom’s voice sound soft and musical and fun? How did she walk—slow and casual like her son or always in a hurry like her daughter? But now, she said noth
