JJ
The envelope arrived on Wednesday, four days after Millie’s second art class.
It looked like every other piece of boring shop mail: white, business-sized, my name printed across the front in block letters with the shop address underneath. No return address. Stitch tossed it onto the reception counter with two supply invoices and an advertisement for a credit-card processor while I finished a consultation.
I opened the invoices first. The envelope came last because there was nothing about it that told me I should be afraid.
I slid one finger beneath the flap and pulled out a single glossy photograph. For several seconds, my brain refused to understand what I was looking at.
Millie stood beside me with one hand wrapped around mine and the other holding a sheet of thick art paper agai
