I stayed in my room for almost an hour.
The note sat on my desk.
ASK YOUR MOTHER.
I had read it so many times that the words had started losing meaning.
I picked it up again.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
It matched the writing on the back of the photograph.
Whoever had written this knew about the photograph.
They knew about my mother.
And somehow, they knew I'd found it.
I folded the note.
Then stood.
If I was going to ask her, I had to do it now.
---
My mother was in the kitchen.
She was washing dishes.
“Mom?”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I need to ask you something.”
She turned off the tap.
Her expression immediately changed.
“What is it?”
I walked closer.
“Did you attend Blackwood Academy?”
Silence.
She slowly dried her hands.
“Why are you askin
