The photograph was not of Lucas.
That was the first thing my mind registered, and for one strange second, relief flickered through me.
Then I looked closer.
It was a picture of our house.
Our front door.
Our porch.
Taken from across the street, slightly angled, as though whoever had taken it had been sitting in a parked car under the maple tree near Mrs. Bellamy’s mailbox.
My breath caught.
