“No! That is not Elliot,” I snort out.
“Yep, that’s Mase next to him.”
“I can see Mase, but that does not look like El. I need to send this to the girls.”
I pull my phone out and snap a picture, sending it to Lucy and Megan with the caption ‘guess who?’
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I bring my attention to the next box. Lifting the lid, I find a picture. It’s the same photo that Mason has in his home office. A photo of the Lowells before their heartache.
I pass it over Scarlet’s shoulder. “Here.”
“Oh, Dad told me about this day. Mason was stung by a bee seconds after this photo was taken.” My hand wraps around the notebook in the bottom of the box. It looks like a diary. It’s thick, heavy and worn around the edges. Scarlet carries on, “Apparently his face ballooned like it does when he’s near a dog.” Scarlet laughs as I swipe my hand across the cover, clearing the dust that coats it. “Poor fucker. I hope we findthatpicture. Dad always said there was one, but Mason would hide it.”
“What’s this?” I ask, my thumb brushing over the initials that mark the bottom right corner.
“What’s what?” She asks, still staring at the photo in her hand, reliving memories of the past.
My brain misfires, trying to figure out what I am seeing. Without thought, I flick open the diary and begin to read the first page.
November 16, 1993.
Dear Mason.
My darling boy,
Snapping the book closed, I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. “Your mother’s name.”
“Ellis,” Scarlet tells me with a frown.
“Ellis. Marie. Lowell.” I remember Mason telling me after I danced for him that night.
“Yes, Ellis Marie. What’s wrong, Nina? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The initials.” I trace them like I have many times before. The gilding and font exact. Unique and yet so familiar. “EML.”
“What about them?”
“I’ve seen them before, but on a piano.”
“Yeah, Mum’s. She was an incredible pianist. Dad said she would have played for the world someday, but she never wanted to leave this place.”
I suck in a breath as I lift my gaze to her. “Where is the piano?”
“Mason has it. Are you okay?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nina
Mason has it?
I know what those three words mean. They make perfect sense. But my mind is unwilling to connect the dots. Because what the hell does this mean?
“Do you have a picture of it?”
I’m being stupid. There’s no way—is there?
“Of the piano?” Scarlet frowns, as if I’m crazy.
