I ran to the front door barefoot, with Miles right behind me in his pajamas, and stopped so hard I almost hit the frame.
There were baseball gloves all over my porch.
Not nailed. Not thrown around. Lined up carefully across the steps and hanging from the railing with bits of twine.
Old ones. New ones. Tiny kid gloves. A catcher’s mitt. A left-handed glove. One pink glove with glitter in the stitching.
There had to be almost thirty of them.
Every single glove had a photograph tucked into the pocket.
Karen was standing in my yard with one hand over her chest saying, « I didn’t touch anything. I just saw them and yelled. »
Miles grabbed my arm.
« Mom, » he whispered. « That’s him. »
He was pointing at one of the photos.
Continue on the next page:
