Chapter 1
The hallway was dark except for the light coming from the kitchen behind me. I was standing at the granite island watching Mom chop vegetables when the shadow moved at the far end of the hall. It was a man, tall, just a black shape against the back light, walking slow toward us with his hands at his sides. Our front door was supposed to be locked. Mom had locked it after we got home from school. And he was already inside, walking like he knew where the kitchen was.
Mom hadn't seen him yet. She was by the dark wood cabinets, her blonde hair pulled back, her beige button-up shirt tucked in, gold earrings catching the kitchen light. She was relaxed, humming a little, totally calm while a stranger got closer and closer behind her. That was the contradiction that stuck in my chest — how safe the kitchen felt and how wrong that hallway looked at the same time, the hardwood floor reflecting his steps.
My name is Ethan and I was ten that night.
It was just after six. Dad wasn't home. The kitchen smelled like onions and the dishwasher was humming. I saw the man's shape get clearer in the doorway, and my mouth went dry. He was older, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair swept back, stubble on his face, wearing a dark bomber jacket over a dark shirt and gray trousers. I could see the brown leather watch on his wrist when the light hit it. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't frowning either. He just looked tired and tense, like he was trying not to scare us and failing.
I didn't mean to whisper it but it came out small.
"Mom, someone's here."
Mom turned her head fast. "What?" Then she saw him.
Her whole body changed. She stepped in front of me a little, her hand still holding the knife, and her voice went sharp in a way I'd never heard her use at home. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"
The man stopped at the edge of the kitchen where the dark hallway met the warm light. He lifted both hands just a little, palms out.
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
His voice was low and calm. He said it slow, like he'd practiced it. Mom didn't relax. If anything her shoulders got higher. She glanced at the back door, then at me, then back at him. The kitchen was too quiet. I could hear him breathing.
He said, "I need to speak with you," and he was looking at Mom when he said it, but then his eyes moved to me. I took a half step back until my hip hit the island.
Mom said, "Then what do you want?" Her words were clipped. She was trying to sound angry instead of scared.
The man kept his hands where we could see them. He said, "I need to talk to him," and nodded just slightly toward me. That made Mom's hand tighten on the knife handle.
I didn't know what to say. My throat felt tight. "Do I know you?" I asked, and my voice cracked. It sounded small against the granite and the cabinets.
Mom cut in, louder. "What's your name? Why?" She was talking fast now, not letting him answer one thing before asking the next. "Answer me. What is this about?"
The man didn't answer right away. He looked at Mom really carefully, the way you look at someone you think you recognize. Then he said it, quiet, like it surprised him too.
"You look exactly like someone I knew."
Mom stared. "Who? What are you talking about? What's that?" She was shaking her head, but her eyes stayed locked on him.
He reached inside his bomber jacket with both hands, slow so we could see. For a second I thought Mom was going to tell him to stop. She didn't. He pulled out something flat and tan, tied with thin string, with a dark reddish-brown wax seal holding it shut. He set it down on the granite island right in front of us. The stone was cold and the envelope made a soft sound when it touched.
Claire went completely still.
It was like someone hit pause on her. Her mouth was open a little, her eyes went wide, and all the color left her face. She stared at that little wax seal like she'd seen it before and never wanted to see it again. I looked from her to the envelope to the man.
"Mom? You recognize the seal," I said without thinking, because it was obvious she did.
Her whisper was barely there. "Where did you get that?"
The man kept his hand near the envelope but didn't push it closer. His expression tightened. He looked at me, then at Mom, and I realized he wasn't going to let her just grab it and tear it open.
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"Before you open it, there's something you need to know," he said.
Mom's fingers hovered over the string. Mine stayed on the edge of the island. None of us moved. The envelope sat there sealed, right between us, and the kitchen light made the wax shine dark red.
