Eleven years ago.
Long before I worked for Greg.
Long before Emily.
Long before any of this.
“What is this?”
Richard handed me another photograph.
Then another.
Me at a gas station.
Me outside my old apartment.
Me getting into a car.
All taken over the same six-month period.
Emily looked horrified.
“Who took these?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said.
I looked up.
“You found these in Greg’s office?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
Richard reached into his jacket again.
He placed a folded sheet of paper on the coffee table.
It was a photocopy of an old employment application.
Mine.
From six years earlier.
The first time I applied at the restaurant.
Several sections had been circled.
Date of birth.
Previous address.
Emergency contact.
My father’s name.
Except my father had been dead for years before I ever filled out that application.Someone had written beside his name:
