Chapter 18 A Warmer Kind of Danger

• “Let me see it,” I said, practically running through the front door, my mother standing in the kitchen with a photograph clutched in her shaking hands.
• She held it out without a word.
• My father. Older than I remembered him, gray threading through his dark hair, lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there in the one photo I had left from before he “died.” But it was him, unmistakably him, standing in front of a building I didn’t recognize, looking directly at whoever held the camera like he knew exactly who was taking the picture.