My hand shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from my fingers.

I stared at the image of my own front door, the chipped green paint visible even in the low light of the apartment hallway.

“Claire?” Mrs. Latham asked, her voice soft with concern. “Is everything alright?”

I forced my gaze away from the screen and looked up at her.

The classroom was quiet, smelling of wax and washable markers.

Outside, a cold Knoxville wind rattled the glass of the windowpane.

“I need to take photos of these,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “May I?”

“Of course,” she said, sliding the papers closer to me.

I held my phone over the drawings, trying to keep my hands steady.

I snapped a picture of the first drawing, the one of the man behind the curtain.

I took another of the figures labeled “Dad” and “Daniel” holding the green rectangles.

Finally, I flipped the paper over and took a clear, sharp photo of the circled dates and Nolan’s neat handwriting.

*Daniel put the cash in the wall.*

The implications settled heavily in my chest.