I wanted to mend it. That had to start right now. I didn’t want anyone, even Robert, in the room for this conversation. I had such ugly things to say. I didn’t want his lovely clean slate of a brain absorbing them. And yet I felt that Trey and I would not be alone. The ghost of Lexie in her girlhood waited in our bedroom, hoping to be finally, truly seen.

Around seven the night-shift guys came to relieve Mills. I sent them down to the basement with the girls. Mills’s partner dropped Trey off at home fifteen minutes later, waiting in the car for Trey to get safely inside. I met my husband at the door, and my expression was enough to panic him.

“What?” he said. “Where are the kids?”

“The kids are fine. In the basement with the security team.”

“So what’s wrong? You look . . .”

I put a reassuring hand on his arm. “I needed some time to talk with you. Alone.” Trey remained on edge as I led him back to our bedroom. Perhaps he, too, felt the presence of Lexie’s younger self. That girl was buried inside a harder woman, lost to years of addiction and rough living, and yet she was here, too, caught and preserved on paper, in the middle of the moment that would change her life. I closed the door behind us. Locked it. “Sit down.”

He did, perching stiff and tense on the edge of the bed. I went to my dresser and got the photos out of my top drawer. I’d shoved Lexie back behind my underwear and socks, as if she were as innocent a thing as a pink diary with a heart-shaped lock. I came to join him, leaving a little space between us on the bed.

I sat down, and into this space I dealt her pictures out for Trey. One, two, three, four, Trey scanning each in turn, his lips going paler and paler, as I said, “Coral mailed these to me. She dropped them at the post office the day before we met her at the carousel. Trey, they came this morning.” I set the last one down, and she was with us. I could feel her.

“Jesus.” His hand came up to rub at his mouth. When he saw the final picture, his gaze skated away. Fast. He looked around, still rubbing his mouth, distressed. He did not look back down at the pictures. He did not look at me. “I never saw most of these. I didn’t look when I made Ansel burn them. I didn’t want to see—”

My eyebrows came together. He’d said, when he told me the ugly story, that he hadn’t looked at the pictures when he went to Ansel’s room to burn them. I hadn’t questioned it. But now I knew personally how hard a thing that was to do.

I was trying to find the words to say this to him when he asked, “When did Coral Lee Pine get these pictures? How?”

I told him everything I’d told Marshall. As I spoke, his gaze roamed the room, avoiding my face and the photos both. His hands rubbed restlessly together.

When I finished, he finally glanced down. He reached for the second picture in the line, as if he were going to pick it up, but he didn’t quite touch it. He looked away again, so sad.

“That’s the one I’ve seen. The one I took from those sorority girls at the party.” He swallowed, but it sounded dry. “I don’t want to look at the rest. It’s too ugly from the outside. Uglier than I remember. I hate that she sent these to you.” His voice shook. He took a moment to collect himself. I waited, hoping he would meet my gaze. Hoping he would see my love and my compassion for him. Instead he looked down at his hands, and anger twisted his mouth. “I keep thinking, how dare she. How dare she send these to you. My wife. The mother of my children. Which is foolish. This woman stole our child. She had no conscience. No boundaries or decency. But still I think, how dare she.” He gave a shuddering sigh, and then finally, finally, he met my gaze. His eyes were shining bright with unshed tears. “God, poor Lexie. This should have been nothing but a night in college. For her especially. A wild night that maybe we’d remember with that kind of”—he paused, searching for a word or phrase—“fond horror? One of those things you can’t believe you did when you were young and dumb. I hate that these got passed around the school and hurt her so. I also hate her mother, but I’m still sorry she saw these. God, I didn’t punch that kid enough. Ansel. Adam. Whatever his name is. I should have hit him more and harder. I half want to go hit him again now, except he lost his son. I guess, on top of everything, I’m grateful. I’m grateful Robert is home.”

He wiped at his eyes, then shrugged helplessly. I saw nothing in him but sincerity and shame, but I couldn’t help wondering at the way he’d processed it all so fast. His words, the arc of his feelings—the actor in me thought that it would make a good audition piece, and then I hated myself immediately for thinking that. Trey was a litigator, smart and articulate, his brain honed by years of work to process information fast. He’d been thinking of little other than Lexie for days now. His sorrow felt genuine, and I knew him. I loved him.

Still, I couldn’t leave it be. Lexie would not let me, and I would not let him. I touched the last photo in the line. It felt cool and smooth, like nothing with a heartbeat, and yet I felt her there.

“This is the one where I . . .” I paused. “Where I have trouble.”

He didn’t look at it. He’d never seen them before, he said. And yet he did not look.

“What kind of trouble?” he asked. Interested. Concerned. He reached past the photos to put his hand on mine. This was the Trey I knew. I said I had trouble, and he instantly wanted to fix it for me.

“I think Spence is holding her arms. Holding her down. And your hand is . . . Trey, she sees the camera.” His eyebrows were going up. He still didn’t look back at the picture, though. He kept his eyes on me. He kept his hand on my hand. I said, “I love you. And I know you. You can tell me what happened.”

“I did tell you,” he said, calm and even. “I don’t particularly remember Spence grabbing her arms, but I also don’t remember who all grabbed what and when.” He smiled, a wry sad smile, shaking his head. “You can’t see her hands, or Spencer’s anyway.” He said all this without once looking back down at the photo. That he had barely glanced at. That he had never seen before.

“I can see your hand.” He kept eye contact, but he stopped touching me, folding his arms over his chest. His eyebrows went up, interested, faintly puzzled. I said, “Your hand is over her mouth.”

“Okay. But, Bree, the camera catches a fraction of a second. So my hand was on her face. For that tiny captured moment at least. What are you saying?”