He looked up, his expression perfectly calm, almost expectant.

“Rylan,” I said, my voice shaking. “Where is it?”

He took a slow sip of his tea, then set the glass down on the granite countertop.

“Where is what, Calla?” he asked, his tone mild.

“My grandmother’s sewing machine,” I said. “And why is the lock on her door broken?”

Rylan sighed, a soft, patronizing sound he often used when he wanted me to feel unreasonable.

“The lock wasn’t broken, Calla,” he said. “We just had to open it. Solene couldn’t find the key, and we needed the space.”

“You jimmied the lock,” I said, my voice rising. “I had the only key. It was locked for a reason.”

“Solene’s sister needed a place for Pax’s things,” Rylan said, crossing his arms. “That room was sitting completely empty. It was just gathering dust.”

“It wasn’t empty,” I said. “Her sewing machine was in there. Her fabrics were in there. Where are they?”

“They’re in the garage,” Rylan said.

He didn’t look guilty at all.

“The garage?” I whispered. “That machine is over eighty years old. The garage is damp. The wood will warp. The iron will rust.”