A three AM phone call about a locked room changed everything

towels down my front porch steps, her sneakers squeaking on the damp wood.

The box was small, but she held it with both arms wrapped tight around the cardboard as if she expected the bottom to fall out.

“Is this the last one from the entryway?” I asked, holding the screen door open with my shoulder.

“The very last one,” Stacey said, stopping on the bottom continue reading …