Lily hugged the book.
“I like him.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m glad.”
“Will he come tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
That night, after Lily fell asleep beneath a ceiling covered in tiny projected constellations, I sat alone at the kitchen table.
Stephen didn’t answer my calls.
At 10:43, he finally sent one message.
I’m sorry. Don’t contact Harlow about Claire Bell. Give me one day.
I read it five times.
Then I did exactly what he asked me not to do.
I searched the internet.
Claire Bell.
Our town.
Missing.
Harlow Industries.
Nothing.
I tried newspaper archives.
Nothing.
Genealogy websites.
Nothing useful.
Finally, close to midnight, I remembered the boxes.
After my father died, I had inherited several cartons of old family papers I’d never properly sorted. They were in the closet beneath the stairs.
I dragged them into the living room.
Birth certificates.
Tax records.
Old birthday cards.
Photographs.
My grandparents on vacation.
