Neil asks where the photos are. I hand him a sheet of paper, his favorite green crayon. “What do you want to remember?”
“You know what to do.”
The crayon hits my collarbone. “I know you have to have at least one photo of her. Where is it?”
It’s better you forget. It’s better to learn to quit missing her. I get up, pat Neil’s head. “The last one I had was in my wallet and it was stolen. Remember?”
Neil nods, picks up the crayon. He draws a crooked head, spaghetti hair, eyelashes that could snatch you like a Venus flytrap, eyelids that could digest you slowly.
The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America