Adam grabbed a flashlight.
“I’ll start in the basement. Less ghosts down there.”
“Adam…” I warned.
But he was already gone.
Ethan placed a hand on my shoulder.
“This house has been holding its breath for twenty years.”
“So have I,” I whispered.
Diane was already in the living room, touching every frame like she was measuring our grief.
“You kept everything exactly the same,” she murmured.
“I couldn’t move anything,” I said.
“That’s not healthy.”
“You’ve been saying that for twenty years.”
She didn’t respond.
Instead, she looked at Laura’s photo longer than the rest.
I went upstairs and stopped at the girls’ pink door.
Untouched.
Frozen.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should’ve opened this room sooner.”
Then—
A scream.
“DAD! COME DOWN HERE!”
I ran.
Adam was standing frozen in the basement, pale, shaking, holding a dusty plastic case.
“I found this behind the panel… the one Mom told you not to touch.”
My stomach dropped.
A disc.
“There’s a date on it,” he said. “The night before they disappeared.”
Ethan came down behind me.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
“It’s Mom’s handwriting,” Adam said.
Silence.
Heavy. Wrong.
We found an old laptop.
The most important part is just ahead — click NEXT »»
