Dylan fell asleep in the back seat somewhere around the 20 minute mark, head tilted against the window the way six-year-olds do, completely boneless, completely trusting.
I remember looking at him in the rearview mirror and feeling that specific fullness that comes from watching your child sleep.
That uncomplicated love.
I parked in Natalie’s driveway.
I unbuckled Dylan carefully, trying not to wake him, and lifted him against my shoulder.
He stirred, but didn’t wake.
I grabbed the gift bag with my free hand.
And then I saw it.
Colin’s car, parked along the side of the house. Not directly in front, not visible from the street, tucked slightly behind Natalie’s own car, like it had been placed there deliberately.
I stood in the driveway for a long moment.
My brain did what brains do when they encounter something they are not prepared for.
It searched immediately for an explanation. A reasonable one. A comfortable one.
Maybe Colin’s showing had been cancelled.
Maybe he had stopped by to drop something off.
Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary reason that his car was parked at my sister’s house on a Saturday afternoon, when he had told me he was across town.
Maybe.
I shifted Dylan on my shoulder.
I walked to the front door.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Waited.
Silence.
I reached into my bag and found the spare key, the one Natalie had pressed into my hand two years ago with a smile and said, “Just in case, Becca.”
I put the key in the lock.
I opened the door.
I am not going to describe in detail what I saw.
I think you already understand what I found.
And some things, some images, once they are in your mind, they do not leave.
I have no interest in putting them in yours.
What I will tell you is this.
The gift bag dropped from my hand.
Dylan stirred against my shoulder.
Natalie saw me first.