Thank God he’s still at work. If he were here, if those eyes were on me right now…I think I’d shatter on the spot.
I move toward his room, my legs wooden, my chest tight. My hands are cold and trembling, but I start searching anyway. Drawers. Cabinets. The huge closet that smells faintly of him. Nothing.
I walk out into the den. Scan the massive bookshelf. Touch each spine, like maybe the answer’s hidden there. Nothing.
Then his office.
I’ve never entered this space without him. It’s too him—sharp, orderly, professional. I’ve always respected it, left it untouched. But now respect feels like a luxury I can’t afford.
I move through it like a thief. Shelves. Cabinets. The polished desk, every drawer sliding open under my shaking fingers. Nothing.
A pathetic, broken sound slips out of me—half sigh, half sob. My head feels too heavy for my neck. I’m almost ready to give up when my gaze catches on the nightstand near the far wall. I cross the room in quick, uneven steps, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. A flower top and some magazines sit neatly on top.
I grab the edge and pull it away from the wall. The back is solid, my fingers find the hidden latch, and the wood swings open.
I’ve seen Alex do this once before. The back panel opens, revealing a safe.
My mouth dries instantly.
The keypad stares back at me like it knows exactly what I’m about to do. My fingers hesitate, then move on their own. I punch in his phone password.
A sharp click.
My chest seizes. I open it slowly, like maybe if I go slow enough, I can change what’s inside.
I can’t.
It’s there.
Sitting in the dark like it’s been waiting for me.
A small, plastic pink camera.
My camera.
My throat closes.
The world tilts hard to the side, and I have to lock my knees just to stay upright.
Breaths drag out of me in harsh, shallow bursts, my rib cage tight like a vice is crushing it. Every heartbeat slams against my ears until it’s all I can hear.
The shame is instant.
The panic is absolute.
The camera feels heavier than it should, the cold plastic biting into my palms. My fingers are shaking so badly that I almost drop it. My thumb fumbles over the compartment, and when the SD card pops out just enough for me to see it—still there—my stomach twists like something inside me just tore.
I slide it back in.
The screen flickers to life with a low-battery warning, the dim glow making the room feel suddenly smaller. My breathing is uneven as I scroll through the files, each thumbnail like a ghost I don’t dare wake. I don’t open any of them. I can’t. My thumb keeps moving until the last recorded video.
My throat closes.
I click.
The screen fills with my own face, younger and smaller somehow, framed by the worn wooden boards of the treehouse. I’m talking into the camera, lips moving with words I can almosthear, words I remember like a dream I’ve been forcing myself not to think about for years.
The edges of my vision start to pulse. My chest gets tight.
