“Aaah, so that’s when Google came to our rescue.” Emelia pulled out her phone. “Look.” She held it out and both Mike and I leaned in.”
“What?” I gasped when I saw the profile pic for Eugene (Abe) Abrahams. “It’s him! It’s HIM!” I almost yelled as I looked into the eyes I knew so well. The photo was of his younger self, and not how he would look today. “Is his profile open? Has he posted anything?”
“No,” Emelia said. “And it’s weird that he used that photo as a profile picture. Do you think he had it like that in case Edith ever searched Facebook?” she asked.
Mike looked up and then his face dropped. “Oh God. Towards the end, Gran asked me about Facebook, about whether you could find people on it. She’d heard about it. She asked me to help her set up a page . . . I never did.”
Ash reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Shit, she was probably looking for him.” Mike stood up and paced the floor a few times, as if he could no longer sit down. “I should have done it for her. I should have helped her.”
“You didn’t know what she was looking for,” I said quickly.
“She could also have found him in others ways—like, by using a private investigator. Why didn’t she look for him? She could have, couldn’t she?” Ash pressed.
“Where is he? Can we drive there?” Mike asked.
Emelia and Ash shook their heads together. “He moved to England. He moved a week after she wrote her last letter to him.”
“Oh, wow,” I said, as the impact of those words hit home. “So, that letter that she was forced to write by her father, that really was thelastcommunication between them?” I held my face in my hands, trying to imagine what I would feel like, if I was him.
“Oh my God,” Emelia exclaimed.
I held my head and shook it. This couldn’t be how this story ended. This story needed a happy ending; this could not be it. I jumped up off my chair.
“We have to go there, now, and give him the letters,” I said. “He cannot live a minute longer thinking that last letter was what she felt about him. He needs to know the truth.”
