I turned it over.
A woman stared back at me. Her cheekbones were sharp, her lips full and painted with dark lipstick from the eighties. She stood in front of the old boathouse by the east lake. In the photo, the boathouse was still made of old wood tiles, not the white plastic boards Andrew put up years later. An orange date glowed in the bottom corner: 08-14-92.
The woman's hand rested on her pregnant belly. She looked heavily pregnant. Third trimester, by the look of it.
My mouth went dry. Julian would've been born in '96. Whoever this woman carried, it wasn't him.
The door at the end of the corridor groaned open.
"Tamara?" Julian called out, his voice echoing down the narrow hall. "You still back there?”
I didn't think. I stuffed the photo into my back pocket. Then, I grabbed a b
