I sat down, my fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the edges of the first photograph. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. The photographer, whose name I now recalled was Mark, watched me with a mix of apprehension and sympathy. He was a man whose career thrived on capturing moments of joy and love, and yet here he was, burdened with a truth he couldn’t keep to himself.
As I focused on the photos, my eyes scanned the familiar faces. There was David, with his wide grin and youthful energy, holding Jessica’s hand. Each photo seemed perfectly ordinary until Mark pointed to a figure in the background. A man in a dark suit, his face half-cast in shadow, appeared in several of the shots. At first, he seemed inconsequential, just another guest. But as Mark guided me through the sequence, the man’s presence became unsettling, his gaze fixed intensely on my son and his new bride.
“Who is this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
