When the house was finally quiet that evening, I crept down the hallway and into Emily's room.
The door creaked open, as if hesitant to let me in. His bed wasn't made yet, a crumpled sweatshirt lying at his feet. His biology textbook was next to the pillow, open to a page he'd highlighted in pink.
I sat down slowly, as if he still needed space. I ran my fingers along the spine of the book and then took his clothes. One by one, I slowly folded them, not because they needed to be folded, but because I wanted to touch them again.
The smell of her shampoo was still lingering on the pillowcase. The walls were still plastered with Polaroids of her friends, our dog Max, and a few selfies with me.
We laughed at each of them. I blinked rapidly, trying to dry my tears.
“I miss you, darling,” I whispered. “I miss you so much.”
Then I saw his backpack abandoned in a corner, as if he was waiting for Monday morning.
I knelt beside it and slowly opened it. I rummaged through notebooks and pens, all the little things that hadn't seemed important until then.
There was a folded sheet of paper in his history book. I pulled it out and slowly unfolded it.
“Mom, if you read this, look under my bed. You'll understand everything.”
My breathing caught. My hands grew cold as the ink faded slightly from the heat of my fingers.
Emily's handwriting. Precise and thoughtful. She must have written with shaky hands, but her instructions were clear. She must have written it after her discussion with David, as if she knew I'd go looking for answers if he didn't provide them.
I turned toward the door, empty and silent, and knelt down, my heart beating strangely. My fingers felt under the bed until they touched something made of cardboard, something heavy.
I pulled a dusty black box from the far corner and sat back on my heels. My whole body trembled, as if I already knew that what was inside me would change everything.
I lifted the lid.
Inside was a small envelope with photos and a digital voice recorder.
The first photo made me nauseous. David was accompanied by a woman I didn't recognize, her arm casually wrapped around his waist. She wasn't just posing, she was smiling.
Another photo, again of David, with a small child in his arms. The baby had the same big brown eyes as Emily.
“No,” I whispered, even though no one could hear me.
I opened the envelope. More photos. There were printed screenshots of bank transfers, hotel reservations, GPS coordinates, and a jewelry store receipt. All of this dated back seven years.
