Chapter 2 - The Woman in the School Photograph
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Goldie's father stood motionless beside the folding chair, one enormous tattooed hand still holding a silver hairpin. His name was Nathaniel Mercer, although nearly everyone at Briarwood Elementary called him Mr. Mercer.
He was a broad-shouldered construction worker with a thick dark beard, scarred knuckles, and the kind of intimidating presence that made people lower their voices when he entered a room.
Yet at that moment, he looked frightened.
Not embarrassed.
Not angry.
Frightened.
"Goldie," he whispered, "go back to your friends."
His daughter didn't move.
"Why seventeen, Daddy?"
Nathaniel glanced toward the hallway windows.
For one strange instant, I thought he was looking for someone.
Then he knelt in front of her.
"Because I made a promise."
"To Mommy?"
His face changed.
It was so brief that I might have missed it if I hadn't been standing directly beside him.
His eyes widened.
His fingers tightened around the silver hairpin.
And his voice dropped almost to nothing.
"Who told you that?"
Goldie looked confused.
"Nobody."
"Then why would you ask?"
She touched the thick golden braid resting across her shoulder.
"Because I dreamed about her again."
Nathaniel stood so abruptly that the folding chair scraped against the tile.
The sound made several parents turn.
Before anyone could ask another question, the auditorium doors opened, and a teacher announced that the children needed to take their places.
Nathaniel watched Goldie disappear into the crowd.
Then he gathered the brushes, ribbons, and pins with shaking hands.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I asked the question everyone else seemed afraid to ask.
"Mr. Mercer, is Goldie's mother alive?"
He looked directly at me.
"Why?"
"My daughter Emily says Goldie never talks about her."
"Then perhaps you should respect that."
His answer was sharp, but there was something beneath it.
A warning.
Not to me.
Almost as though he feared somebody else might hear.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He zipped his bag.
Then, very quietly, he asked, "Has your daughter ever mentioned Goldie talking to a woman?"
I frowned.
"What woman?"
"An older woman. Gray coat. Dark glasses."
"No."
His shoulders loosened slightly.
"Good."
He walked into the auditorium before I could respond.
I stood there wondering what kind of father asked a question like that.
My name is Rebecca Collins. I'm thirty-six, a nurse, a single mother, and not someone who usually involves herself in other people's private affairs.
But I have spent enough years working in emergency departments to recognize fear.
Nathaniel Mercer was terrified.
And whatever frightened him had something to do with his daughter's hair.
The concert began fifteen minutes later.
Goldie stood in the second row wearing a green dress with a black velvet bodice. Her braid had been wrapped carefully around her waist to keep it from dragging on the stage.
The children sang three songs.
Parents filmed.
Teachers smiled.
Everything seemed ordinary.
Until the lights dimmed for the final performance.
Goldie suddenly stopped singing.
She was looking toward the back of the auditorium.
I followed her gaze.
A woman stood near the exit.
She wore a charcoal-gray coat.
Her face was partly hidden behind oversized dark glasses.
I couldn't tell her age.
But I noticed one thing immediately.
Her hair was almost white.
She raised her right hand.
Goldie raised hers.
Not a wave.
Three fingers.
Then the woman disappeared.
Nathaniel was already moving.
He pushed past two rows of seated parents and hurried toward the exit.
By the time I reached the hallway, he was standing beneath the emergency light, staring at an empty corridor.
"Did you see her?" I asked.
He turned.
"See who?"
"The woman in the gray coat."
He looked toward the doors.
For the first time, I noticed that his hands were trembling.
"There was no woman."
I knew he was lying.
And he knew I knew.
That night, Emily couldn't stop talking about Goldie.
"Mom, did you see what happened during the last song?"
"Yes."
"Goldie says she saw her mother."
I stopped washing the dishes.
"Her mother?"
Emily nodded.
"She said her mom came to watch."
"Did she recognize her?"
"Not exactly."
"What does that mean?"
Emily hesitated.
"Goldie says she only remembers her mom from pictures."
I turned off the faucet.
"What pictures?"
"The ones in the old school album."
A strange chill moved through me.
Briarwood Elementary was more than eighty years old. Every year, the school displayed historical photographs in a glass cabinet outside the library.
Emily had helped organize the display for Heritage Week.
"Show me tomorrow," I said.
The following morning, I arrived early.
Emily led me toward the cabinet.
There were photographs of graduating classes, school plays, teachers, and community celebrations.
Near the bottom sat a faded picture dated October 2009.
It showed a little girl with golden hair standing outside the school entrance.
Her hair reached almost to her ankles.
She wore a green dress.
Beside her stood a younger man with dark hair and a familiar expression.
Nathaniel Mercer.
I stared at the photograph.
The date made no sense.
Goldie was nine.
The picture had been taken seventeen years earlier.
And the little girl standing beside Nathaniel looked exactly like his daughter.
Even the green dress was identical.
I leaned closer.
Someone had written a name beneath the photograph.
Evelyn Mercer — Age Nine.
A teacher passing behind us noticed my expression.
"Beautiful photograph, isn't it?"
"Who is that child?"
The teacher glanced at the picture.
"Oh, that's Evelyn. Such a sad story."
"What happened to her?"
The woman's smile faded.
"She disappeared."
My mouth went dry.
"When?"
"That same autumn."
I looked again at the photograph.
The golden braid.
The green dress.
Nathaniel's younger face.
"What happened to her father?"
The teacher frowned.
"Father?"
She leaned closer.
"Oh, no. You've misunderstood."
She pointed toward Nathaniel.
"That isn't her father."
"Then who is he?"
The teacher hesitated.
"Her older brother."
I felt the hallway tilt beneath my feet.
Before I could ask another question, a deep voice spoke behind us.
"Rebecca."
I turned.
Nathaniel Mercer stood six feet away.
His face was pale.
His eyes were fixed on the photograph.
Then he looked at me.
May you like
And whispered four words that made my blood run cold.
"That picture was destroyed."
