"Especially now?" I echoed, the words tasting colder than they should have.

  A soft voice behind me repeated them: "Especially now?"

  I turned too quickly.

  "Lily. You're home." My voice found a smile before my face did. "How was your first day?"

  She grinned — that easy, unburdened grin kids are still allowed to have. "Really good. I get why you liked Little River so much. Dad was so sure I'd be better off in some stiff private school, but this is way better."

  She kicked off her shoes by the door, already halfway into a story. "In Mrs. Everett’s css, I met this girl Katie — redhead, the kind of freckles that look drawn on. She's hirious. The school announcements are so cringey. We sort of bonded over that."

  Her fingers moved almost absentmindedly to the small charm at her neck — a silver bird, wings mid-fp — and she started turning it, over and over, just like—

  I stopped myself.

  Not the same. Just simir.

  And that was enough to raise the tiny hairs at the back of my neck.

  ...

  Lily didn’t notice the pause. She kept talking, her voice bright and unfiltered, full of the kind of optimism I’d forgotten the halls of Little River could inspire.

  “She said there used to be a drama club, but it shut down after something happened. Do you know what that was?”

  The words slid into the room like a draft.

  I kept my face still. “A lot of programs got cut. Budget stuff.”

  She frowned thoughtfully, like she half-believed me, but not fully. “That’s dumb. Drama seems important.”

  She wandered into the kitchen, humming a tune I didn’t recognize — something bright, probably from whatever she and Katie were already sending back and forth. I stayed by the ptop, Holbrook’s profile still glowing in the half-dim screen. The message just sitting there like it hadn’t tilted the room on its axis.

  “Building trust between parents and staff is more important than ever.”

  I clicked off the screen.

  The house fell into a kind of quiet that wasn’t exactly peaceful. Lily’s footsteps padded upstairs, her voice trailing behind in little bursts as she narrated texts out loud.

  I waited until I heard her bedroom door click shut.

  Then I pulled the old file box from the back of the hall closet. It still had dust on the lid — the fine, undisturbed kind that tells you no one’s come looking in years.

  Inside were half-torn pages from the Little River Gazette, old emails I’d printed back when people still printed things, a few notes I’d scribbled on the backs of receipts when I was too scared to write them down in a proper notebook.

  And the photo.

  Renee, junior year. Standing just outside the music room, arms crossed over a binder, smirking like she’d just told someone something true and clever. Behind her — slightly out of focus — was a bulletin board. Choir schedules. A sign-up sheet for auditions. And just visible over her shoulder: a man in a dress shirt and tie, caught mid-step in the doorway.

  I’d never paid him any attention before.

  But now, as I looked again, a chill crept up the back of my neck.

  Even through the blur, I recognized those eyes.

  That man is reted to Cra Holbrook.