her hand.
“Oh God,” she said.Margaret stepped inside before the woman could decide whether to stop her.
“That is my son,” she said. She held up the photograph. “That child is my son Daniel.”
The woman stared at the Polaroid. “That’s my husband.”
Margaret could not speak for a moment.
“Where is he?”
The woman pulled the little boy gently behind her. “At work. Lumber yard, about thirty minutes from here.”
“His name is Daniel.”
The woman’s eyes filled. “His name is Danny.”
“No,” Margaret said. “It isn’t.”
The little boy peered around from behind his mother’s leg. He had something in his face that Margaret could not look at directly — something specific and painful that she recognized, that she had last seen in a school photograph on her own nightstand.
The woman said, “My name is Kate.”
“I know you didn’t do this,” Margaret said, because she could
