Ms. McDermott’s package is propped up against the door, with just my name on it—KATIE—and her initials: A.M. There’s hardly any weight to it, feels like it could have been blown away by a fraction of a wind, but it’s just so still tonight. I sit on the stoop wishing Danny were still near, his arm around me, his laugh, because when I open whatever Ms. McDermott has dropped off, I’m going to need another kiss. The envelope isn’t sealed, and something flimsy falls right out into my lap—a photograph, size of my hand. It’s a slick black-and-white on one side. A handwritten note on the other, blue ink. Miss Martine Everlast. May 1954, the note says. Miss Martine, the same year that she vanished. I turn the photo faceup and lift it higher, toward the moon. She isn’t glamour here, not the star of some ball, not wearing diamonds in her hair, which falls long and dark, past the bottom edge of the photograph. Her blouse is hardly a blouse, more like a shirt, something a man might have worn, with a stiff, starched collar, and now I need better light to see her.
