Chapter 7

The morning of January first came gray and cold, the kind of morning that smells like the inside of a refrigerator and makes every plan you made the night before feel like a bad decision.

Ruth woke at six. She was the only one awake in the house, and it felt like a kind of gift — the gift of a quiet hour before the aftermath began. She made herself a cup of tea in the new white mug (the good mugs were still in the box, and she had stopped pretending she cared), and she sat at the kitchen island, and she looked at the drawer.

The envelopes were still there. She had checked, the night before, before going to bed, and she would check again now. She pulled the drawer open.

They were gone.

The drawer was empty — not just of the envelopes, but of everything. The takeout menus, the rubber bands, the measuring tape. The drawer had been cleaned out, and the two sealed envelopes with it.

Ruth sat very still. The tea was in her hand. She could feel the heat through the ceramic, and she could feel her heart beating in a way she had not felt in years.

She put the tea down.

She stood up.

She walked through the kitchen, into the hallway, up the stairs, and she was not running, but she was moving faster than she had moved in a long time. She reached the landing, and she stopped.

Aaron's bedroom door was closed.

She opened it.

The room was empty.

The closet was open and empty. The dresser drawers were open and empty. The bed was made — hastily, but made — and there was a note on the pillow, a single sheet of white copier paper with Aaron's handwriting on it.

*Mom.*