She didn’t look at me, but her fingers stopped twisting her sweater.

“Do you remember the game your mom used to play?” I asked. “The one where she hid things in the house?”

Sophie’s shoulders tensed.

She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the dim light of the hallway chandelier.

Her lips parted slightly, a tiny breath escaping them.

For the first time in six months, she made a sound.

It was a low, dry click in the back of her throat.

She reached out and touched my wrist, her hand incredibly cold.

She pointed a single, trembling finger toward the basement door at the end of the hall.

“Down there,” Sophie whispered.

Her voice was barely a breath, rough and scratchy from months of disuse.

Detective Pierce stepped closer, his boots creaking on the hardwood floor of the hallway.

“What is down there, Sophie?” I asked.

She didn’t look at him.

She kept her eyes locked on mine, her small fingers tightening on my sleeve.

“The book,” she said.

My heart gave a sudden, hard thud against my ribs.