Amelia

AMELIA

Adam still hasn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together.

He stares at the little girl’s bedroom where everything is covered in robins, looking like a lost child. Until I take his hand and lead him back out onto the landing. We stop at the top of the spiral stairs, and I point at the final framed photo on the wall.

“Who is it?” he asks, although I’m fairly sure he must know by now. Having face blindness can’t stop someone from seeing the truth.

The grandfather clock in the bedroom starts chiming and we both jump … I thought it had stopped.

“It’s you,” I say. We study the image then: the expensive-looking suit he wore for the wedding, the confetti on his shoulders, the wedding dress, the rings, the happy smiles … and someone else in the shot. “Henry is in the background. We both know he wasn’t invited, but the fact that he was there—standing on the street outside the registry office by the looks of it—along with seeing this picture on his wall of family portraits, suggests that he thought of you as much more than just a screenwriter who adapted his books.”

Adam still doesn’t understand.

This isn’t going to be easy. But my husband needs to know the truth now, and I need to be the one to tell him.

“The woman in the wedding photo isn’t me.”