I had no idea where he was.
Or why he had lied.
That evening, police searched every room while I sat downstairs wrapped in a blanket. I listened to drawers opening, footsteps crossing the ceiling, and officers speaking quietly behind closed doors.
Eventually, Kellan returned carrying a small metal box from Daniel’s office.
Inside were old newspaper articles.
Dozens of them.
Every clipping concerned the three women who had disappeared twenty-two years earlier.
Photographs of the victims.
Reports about the yellow roses.
Investigators’ theories.
There were handwritten notes along the
