He stopped.
“It has my name on it.”
“Joanna—”
“My name.”
Robert looked at the baby, then at her. Slowly, unwillingly, he handed it over.
The envelope felt too light.
Inside was a photograph.
This one was not old.
This one was clear.
Joanna’s breath stopped.
It showed Logan.
He was thinner than she remembered. His cheekbones were sharp, his beard untrimmed, his eyes hollow with fear. He stood in what looked like a basement or cellar, one hand raised toward the camera as if telling the person behind it to stop.
But that was not what made Joanna’s vision go white.
Beside Logan stood another man.
Older by a few years, maybe early thirties. Same dark hair. Same shape of the mouth. Same eyes.
And beneath his open collar, just visible against his skin, was the broken crescent birthmark.
Robert made a sound like a man being wounded.
“Elias,” he whispered.
Joanna turned the photo over.
There was writing on the back.
Not in marker this time.
In Logan’s handwriting.
She knew it instantly. The slanted letters. The pressure of the pen. The way he never closed his O’s.
He’s not dead.
Don’t trust my father.
Protect the baby.
Joanna looked up.
Robert Wright stood beside her hospital bed, tears running silently down his face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, from somewhere down the hallway, the hospital lights flickered once.
Twice.
And went out.
The baby began to cry again.
In the dark, Robert whispered, “Joanna… listen to me very carefully.”
