We moved through the house room by room. I collected uniforms, medals, personal documents, photographs from before Ryan, my father’s watch, my mother’s recipe cards, a shoebox of letters from soldiers I had mentored. Each item felt like rescuing a version of myself from behind enemy lines.
In the bedroom, the pillow was gone.
The sheets had been changed.
But the carpet still held tiny dark strands near the baseboard.
My hair.
Linda followed my gaze and smiled.
It was quick. Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
So did Sarah.
In the office, we found the locked file cabinet empty. Ryan claimed he had lost the key. A deputy noted it. Sarah requested preservation. Ryan scoffed.
Then a noise came from the hallway.
