The frame held my junior-year portrait, the same one my mother had placed beside the white candle. Tucked behind the glass was a memorial program with my name printed across the top and a date from three years ago. Beneath it lay a stack of sympathy cards addressed to my parents, each signed by people I had known my whole life. My hands went cold.

Footsteps creaked above me. My mother stood at the top of the stairs in her robe, one hand over her mouth. “Tessa,” she whispered, “you were not supposed to come back tonight.” My father appeared behind her, and for the first time in six years he looked straight at me. “Let us explain,” he said quietly.