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"We lost reception."

Rhett checks his phone.

"So did I."

"The police radios worked here."

"They did."

"What changed?"

He doesn't answer. Because neither of us has one. Instead, he walks toward the staircase.

"I'm checking upstairs."

"I'll come with you."

"No."

I fold my arms.

"We've already had this conversation."

"I know."

"And?"

"And I'm still right."

"I hate when you're calm."

"I've noticed."

Before I can argue further, Sayer speaks.

"My room."

We both turn.

"It's this way."

He starts up the stairs. Rhett immediately catches up beside him. I follow despite neither of them asking me to.

The hallway upstairs is lined with family photographs. Vacations. Birthdays. School pictures. A life that looks wonderfully ordinary. Then I notice something strange.

Every photograph that includes Sayer before the age of five has been removed. Not the frames. Just the pictures. Empty mats stare back at us from the walls. One after another. My pulse quickens.

"Rhett."

He follows my gaze. His expression hardens.

"Someone took them."

"Recently?"

He reaches toward one frame. A faint rectangle of unfaded wallpaper surrounds it.

"Very recently."