The sun was setting.
Its last light slipped through the broken windows of Christie's old house, painting the dust-filled room in long strips of orange and gold.
The house had been abandoned for years.
What remained of it barely deserved to be called a house anymore.
The roof sagged in places. The wallpaper had peeled away from the walls. Weeds had forced their way through cracks in the floorboards, and the air carried the stale smell of damp wood and something older.
Something forgotten.
Harold sat on the dusty floor with his back against the wall.
In one hand, he held a small metal box.
In the other, a photograph.
He stared at it.
Four people.
Harold.
Ezra.
Penelope.
Charity.
Their arms were thrown over one another's shoulders, their smiles wide and careless.
They looked impossibly young.
More than thirty years ago.
Before the deaths.
Before the disappearances.
Before the lies.
