Page 50 of Capturing You

“Show me.”

She eyed the books on the floor but didn’t move to pick them up until he settled on the chair beside her.

She grabbed the album on top of the pile.

They were scrapbooks, the photos glued into place, many with captions.

Handwritten by his mother.

Another gut punch.

Brooklynn turned the pages quickly, and he tried not to see the images of his parents and Rosie as she passed them as if they didn’t matter.

Finally, she stopped. “There.” Her tone was gentle as she pointed to a photograph. “Tell me that isn’t you.”

He braced himself.

And looked at the photograph.

It’d been taken in the adjoining room on Christmas morning. Their decorated tree stood in the background, and though most of it was out of the picture, he could practically smell the spruce.

Tasha, Rosie’s calico kitten, was in the foreground playing with discarded wrapping paper.

Dad was seated in his recliner.

Rosie was behind the chair, bending low enough to fit in the frame.

Eight-year-old Forbes stood beside his dad, whose arm was wrapped around his waist.

They were all three smiling at the camera, at Mom.

He let the image settle, breathed through the pain that felt as acute as a physical blow, and considered his answer carefully.

When he was sure the truth wouldn’t show on his face, he looked up. “It’s not me.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She licked her lips, seemed to be trying to figure out how to get him to come clean. “I didn’t realize there was a second child.”

“He wasn’t home at the time of the murders.” Another lie, one that’d been repeated a thousand times. Only a single cop had known the truth. “He’d gone to his grandmother’s.”

“Just tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling you everything.” Everything it was safe for her to know, anyway.

This was a secret he’d kept for nearly twenty-five years. He’d promised he’d never tell.

He wasn’t about to betray Grandmother because of a too-attractive brunette who couldn’t mind her own business.

“I’m related to the Ballentines.”

There.

That was true without being the whole truth. “Which is why I’m determined to figure out who killed them.”

Her eyebrows rose in perfect mirrored question marks. “You’rerelated?”

He tapped the photograph. “There’s a resemblance, but it’s not that strong. I mean, I know what I looked like as a child, and that isn’t it.”

The lies were stacking up like bricks, hopefully creating an impenetrable wall.