The photograph fell out of the book he had just picked from Lora's side table.
He picked it up, a woman with, a flower tucked behind her ear, looking at the camera with the composure of someone who had decided exactly how much of herself to give it. Which was not much.
He almost set it down. Then something caught he had seen this before in his father's drawer not long ago.
He looked at her again.
The resemblance didn't come gradually. It landed all at once, the way these things do when you've been looking from the wrong angle, her bone structure, the set of her eyes exactly as hers. This woman looked like Lora the way a source looks like its copy. Same face, same eyes, the same watchful stillness he had attributed, in Lora, to character.
He turned the photograph over.
