He was watching me with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

“Annie,” he said, “what did you do?”

I didn’t answer him.

I turned toward the pantry door, my hand reaching for the brass knob.

The wood was cool against my palm.

Inside the pantry, the lightbulb was burned out, leaving the space beneath the stairs pitch black.

I reached in, my fingers finding the flashlight I kept on the top shelf.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating the neat rows of canned peaches and flour sacks.

And behind them, tucked into the far corner where the ceiling sloped down to the floor, was a thick, black three-ring binder.

The plastic spine was cracked from years of use.

I reached for it, my fingers sliding over the dusty plastic.

Just as my hand closed around the spine, the phone in Dan’s hand rang.

The ringtone was loud, piercing the silence of the house like an alarm.

We all froze.

Dan looked down at the screen.

The caller ID showed a name I hadn’t seen in years.