“Read it to me,” Mac said. “Out loud. I want to hear it with you.”
Cloe sat on the edge of the bed, the phone in her hands, the photograph still glowing on the screen. Eleanor at twenty, laughing. Sandra beside her, arm in arm, both of them dressed for a wedding that had ended badly enough that Eleanor had never once mentioned Sandra was there.
She opened the second attachment.
The note was short. Typed, not handwritten. No signature.
Before you decide what kind of woman Sandra Harlow is, you should know what kind of girl she was. This photo was taken on her mother’s wedding day. Sandra was twelve. She wasn’t invited to the ceremony. She found out about it from a neighbour and walked three miles to get there, because she didn’t want her mother to get married without anyone from her old
