Page 82 of Slayer

Dust rained down on us in a choking plume, and we both coughed, waving it away.

I peered inside and paused. I didn’t know what I’d expected. Maybe stacks of boxes, old paperwork, or forgotten junk.

But not this.

“Oh…” Harper breathed. “Was she…living in here?”

It looked like a tiny studio apartment frozen in time.

A narrow daybed sat against the far wall, neatly made. A teal area rug anchored the center of the unit like it belonged there. Against one wall was a dresser, and on top of it sat a microwave, a water kettle, and a few Earl Grey tea packets laid out carefully.

Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust.

If it weren’t for that, I’d have thought she’d been here that morning.

“No way. She was rich, right?” Luna asked, opening a dresser drawer. “Score.” She pulled out a black miniskirt and turned to me with exaggerated puppy eyes.

“It’s yours,” I told her, and she squealed.

Harper drifted toward a filing cabinet and ran her finger along the top, coming away with a thick line of dust.

“My mom said she had her own house a few blocks from ours. They planned to raise their kids together… Why would she live in here?” Harper sounded as confused as I felt.

A stone settled in my gut.

I was wondering the same thing. There was even a camping toilet tucked into the corner.

“I don’t know.”

Harper moved to inspect the wall rack of weapons, and I beelined for the filing cabinet.

If my mom was hiding something, it would be here, and preferably I found it before the girls.

I opened the drawer slowly and peered inside at three stacks of photo albums. I lifted them out and set them on top of the cabinet, opening the first one. A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. It was filled with pictures of Celia and Molly from twelve to twenty-three-ish.

Always grinning.

Always holding on to each other.

“This is for your mom.” My voice caught.

Harper nodded and carried the album to the bed, sitting down carefully with it.

“Oh em gee, a black corset! Your mom was so cool,” Luna called from the dresser.

I chuckled and opened the second album. My stomach sank. It was of my mom and her fiancé.

Donovan.

The photos hurt in a quiet, aching way. Piggyback rides, fancy clothes at some formal event, my mom gazing at him like the world narrowed down to just his face. One picture nearly stopped my heart. My mom was asleep, and Donovan was taking a selfie, holding up an engagement ring with a cheeky grin.

Had he shown her the photo later? Was that how he’d proposed?

A loose paper slipped free from the last page, and I unfolded it. It was a poem.

Donnie,

Your love is the only thing that ever felt real.