Lyra stared at the photo on Old Mrs. Covington's phone, her mind racing. There was no mistaking it—someone had digitally altered the image. The lighting was inconsistent, the edges around her silhouette slightly blurred. A professional job, but detectable to her trained eye.
"I never sent you this," she said carefully, meeting the elderly woman's gaze.
Old Mrs. Covington's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Are you certain, dear? My memory may not be what it once was, but I distinctly remember receiving this from you."
Percival moved closer, examining the photo over Lyra's shoulder. His warm breath tickled her neck as he leaned in.
"Grandmother, where exactly did this come from?" he asked, his tone measured.
The old woman waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, details. So tedious. The important thing is that I have it."
