The sheriff had told me their vehicle had crashed on a quiet stretch of highway. The investigation had found no evidence of another driver, and the case had been closed.
For years, I accepted that explanation because I couldn’t bear to keep questioning it.
But Romy wasn’t satisfied.
She began spending hours in the basement, where I’d stored the things that had belonged to Silas and Bree.
Sometimes she’d bring upstairs an old photograph or one of Bree’s sweaters and ask me about it.
Then, a few weeks ago, she became strangely withdrawn.
She stopped eating breakfast with me and barely spoke at dinner.
When I asked what was wrong, she insisted she was fine.
I assumed she was dealing with something at school and decided to give her a little space.
Yesterday morning, I was making scrambled eggs when she came into the kitchen carrying a dusty cardboard box.
