A gallery painting bore my daughter’s face—until the truth behind it shattered everything I thought I knew

after several rings.

“Tanya?”

“Where are you?”

“Parking outside. Why?”

I looked at the painting.

“I found Lily.”

Silence.

Then, quietly:

“What?”

I hung up.

A few minutes later, Patrick came through the door.

The moment he saw the portrait, all color left his face.

“Lily,” he whispered, broken.

Then he noticed Nova crying.

I crossed my arms.

“Did you know Elaine tried continue reading …