I narrow my eyes, trying to see beyond the violent red scratches in the picture. I recognize the red swimsuit Courtney is wearing. Later that afternoon, when the girls went down for a nap, I peeled it off her with my teeth. We made love in the walk-in shower until the floor was covered with sand and the water ran cold. It was a beautiful day.
But we didn’t take any pictures.
The photograph is taken from further up the beach and we are blurry, as though the photographer zoomed in a good deal before snapping the shot.
“We were watched.” I throw the picture on the floor, letting it slide across the tile and land under the table. “They were watching my house—my family—and I didn’t know.”
“None of us did,” Pasha says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “We all failed them.”
The emotion I’ve loc
