The door opened after her second knock. A woman in her late fifties, silver hair pinned back, studied her with cautious eyes. “Evelyn Armitage?” Margaret asked. The woman nodded slowly. Margaret held out the envelope to her.
“I think these belonged to your brother,” Margaret said. Evelyn’s hand trembled as she pulled out the photographs, breath catching as she traced the image of David leaning against the Mercedes. “Oh God,” she whispered, sinking into a chair.