I carried it up to the bedroom and hid it beneath a stack of winter sweaters in my closet.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floorboards.

My mind raced back to Christmas, when Ryan had shown up at our house with a bruised jaw and a broken watch.

Ethan had pulled him into the garage, and they had argued for over an hour.

I remembered the frantic tone of Ethan’s voice through the thin walls, and how quiet he had been for days afterward.

Now, it was all starting to align.

I went back downstairs to the kitchen to lock the back door.

The wind was picking up, rattling the loose pane in the pantry window.

As I reached for the lock, I noticed a small piece of paper on the kitchen counter, partially hidden under the mail organizer.

It was a crumpled receipt from a shipping store in Manhattan, dated three days ago.

The receipt was for a registered package sent to an address in Nassau, Bahamas.

The sender’s name was printed as Ethan Vance, but the contact phone number listed was Ryan’s.