Betrayed by Jeanette Windle Page A

and up a veranda stairway into an upstairs apartment.
     
    It was small with an open kitchen and living area. The few pieces of furniture were sparse and well worn. One wall held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a scattering of bright, newer book spines amidst the ancient mildewed bindings. Like everything else Vicki had seen, the place was ruthlessly clean, and its very simplicity held a certain attraction.
     
    “My retreat when things get too noisy around here,” Evelyn said with quiet humor as she ushered Vicki in and began rummaging through a bookshelf. “Though back when you were born, it was our guest quarters. Such a sweet baby you were. And Holly, though of course she was already a toddler before I saw her. Sit! Sit!”
     
    As Vicki sank obediently into the armchair, Evelyn came back with a photo album, old enough that its binding was cracking. Carefully she spread it out on a coffee table.
     
    “There you are, the whole family. That was the last time you were here, just before—”
     
    Vicki stared in astonishment at the black-and-white photo. The background was easily identifiable as the courtyard below, the broad staircase behind the group the same she’d just climbed.
     
    There were four people in all. And, yes, the blonde toddler being held up for the camera was definitely Holly, while the small, brown girl in front looked much like Vicki’s early school photos. Though none of those had carried such a joyous grin. Vicki studied the two adults. Could these really be her birth parents? The woman holding Holly looked startlingly like the image that confronted Vicki in the mirror. Her hair was long and parted down the middle. The man was tall and blond, one hand resting protectively on Vicki’s shoulder.
     
    “It is us,” Vicki said blankly. “But how did you—?” Then she saw the picture on the opposite page, identical except that in this one a younger Evelyn replaced the man.
     
    “I took that one.” Evelyn tapped the first photo. “The only picture I’ve got with your father in it, since he was always behind the camera, of course.”
     
    She caught Vicki’s puzzled look. “Jeff was a photojournalist; didn’t you know? He was hitchhiking through Central America, right out of journalism school and determined to find a story that would win him a Pulitzer. He was fascinated with the basureros, a phenomenon that was new back then as peasants displaced by the civil war flooded into Guatemala City. I’d just raised the funds to buy this place for a children’s home. Your mother was one of our volunteers. Your father arrived and fell in love with the children, the country—and your mother. He went home with some news stories that roused enough interest and funds to get this place outfitted for the first fifty kids.”
     
    Evelyn’s smile was reminiscent. “Then he came right back and proposed to your mother. They got married and stayed here, your mother working as our nurse, your father taking pictures and writing. They traveled together until you came along, though it was none too safe with all the civil wars going on, but Jeff never worried. He had this fearlessness , almost recklessly so, as though nothing could touch him. He was outraged about injustice, especially the civil war. He wanted the world to know what was going on down here.”
     
    She’s describing Holly , Vicki realized with incredulity.
     
    “And he was getting noticed. Associated Press and Reuters were beginning to pick up some of his photos and news coverage.” Evelyn turned the album pages as she spoke.
     
    There were group pictures of Evelyn and Victoria with Guatemalan children. Close-ups of haunting faces and sad eyes. Photos of basureros and Casa de Esperanza, clearly before its renovation.
     
    Vicki stared at a photo of Victoria with a baby in her arms, then bent forward to read the tiny lettering on the bottom right-hand corner. The date was followed by Jeff Craig Productions .
     
    Evelyn nodded. “Yes,