to us.
Inside was a photograph of Rebecca standing beside a dark-haired man with gray eyes.
Someone had written underneath:
“Ask your mothers what really happened the night Daniel died.”
I compared the photograph with the donor profile.
The resemblance was extraordinary.
But the man beside Rebecca was considerably older than the donor we’d selected.
Someone was connecting identities that didn’t seem to belong together.
And we needed to know why.
That afternoon, Emily and I went to Margaret’s house.
Helen was already there.
Both women looked exhausted.
On the
