I avoided the rest of the clothes after that, pulling out the boxes instead and popping the tops open. They were the only evidence that anything had changed after her death: All her belongings, packed away as if she was preparing to move away on some grand adventure.

There were boxes of ceramic figurines, adorable puppies and intricate horses and cats with their heads and tails held high. I frowned at those and moved on. They didn't belong to any Tilda I knew. She'd always scoffed at meaningless collectibles.

The next box contained quarters. Several full sets, all fifty states repeated over and over again. I imagined what she would have said if she'd seen them—a waste of perfectly good money—and then I remembered that they were hers.

It went on and on like that: Spoons. Collectible bells. There was even a box split between a satchel of polished rocks and action figures still in their boxes. Desperation clawed at my throat as I dug through box after box, searching for Tilda. I found nothing except stamps. Fucking stamps.

She'd said something back when we were in high school, completing mandatory community service at a nursing home. "If I ever collect stamps, kill me."

The scattered boxes blurred under a sudden film of tears. I gasped, then clamped a hand over my mouth to contain a sob. I didn't want Donovan to hear this. I didn't want him to come upstairs, because I knew the question that would leap from my lips the second I saw his face.

What did you do to my Tilda?

Had the domestic life really tamed her this much? She'd always been wild. A free spirit. I couldn't imagine her changing for anyone. Those perfect collections swam in my mind, taunting me with images of trapped obsession. They were the final grasp at reality for a mind slipping away into insanity.

For the first time, I wondered if Tilda had even remembered me. This complete, nonsensical set of boxes hinted at something sadder than lies.

I scanned them, flaps open and dog-eared, bent like the limbs of dying trees. I almost didn't bother reaching for the last one, but it seemed fitting to finish the torture.

Its lack of heft surprised me, and something jingled against the bottom as I lifted it toward myself. I worked my fingers through the cracks and pulled the top apart, wincing as the cardboard squeaked against itself.

As I peered down into that box, it felt like a breath of fresh air. A few unfamiliar things—a knit scarf and a hat with ear flaps that she wouldn't have been caught dead in—but my eyes slid at once to the source of the jingle.

A key ring. It was so damn Tilda, the Tilda I remembered. She'd had one just like it in high school, bogged down with keychains of all kinds and assorted trinkets she'd clipped or tied or glued on. A ticket stub from the carnival where she'd had her first kiss atop the Ferris wheel. A flip-flop she'd bought at a beachside gift shop during a summer road trip to the coast. Little things like that.

This ring was different, its memories ones I didn't share. I flipped through the chains like clothes on a rack, guessing at some of their meanings and completely lost about others.

A silver set of dice—perhaps a visit to a casino? A tourist souvenir bearing the name Provincetown over a tiny map of Massachusetts's famous arm. I knew the significance of that one already. I slid past the key fob for the Fiat outside, then a house key, and finally onto a rainbow "Boston" keychain. That one felt more like obligation than emotional significance, and a soft, sad smile tugged at my lips.

Next came a penny, elongated and imprinted in one of those touristy machines; this one was from a tour of Paul Revere's house. I tried to imagine Tilda turning the crank in excitement, but couldn't quite match it to the version of her I'd known.

I sat down on the bed, a plume of dust rising around me. I sneezed once before leaning back down to inspect the ring.

A golden heart with "forever yours" etched on its surface caught my eye. Probably a gift from Donovan. Then came a feather. Hair ribbons that looked like they'd been used before she'd tied them haphazardly to the ring. And finally, a safety pin, scabbed with rust and stuck closed.

I stared at that pin, my brows furrowed. It felt out of place, like maybe she'd kept it there in case she needed it instead of for the aesthetics. But that didn't seem right, either. Tilda had always been funny about keychains, and I knew nothing would have made it on this ring without significance.

Then again, I thought as I glanced at the other boxes, she'd changed since then.

Suddenly, I froze. The hairs on the back of my neck rose one by one, standing on end as if a lightning strike was imminent. A shiver singed my spine, and as I slowly turned my head, a creak split the silence like a gunshot.

I shot to my feet as my heart accelerated against my chest. My first thought was of Donovan, peering through the door to watch me relive my childhood—but when I looked up, no one was there. The door stood ajar, wavering as if someone had cracked it open before retreating, but the hall beyond appeared empty.

I ran on tiptoes to the door, yanking it open and sticking my head out into the hallway. "Hello?" I called, taking two cautious steps across the polished wood. "Donovan?"

Only silence greeted me, far too familiar as it crept up my arms and settled into my heart. An irrational, panicked thought popped into existence, branding itself with sizzling heat across my brain: What if he left?

What if he left me here alone, just like Mark had done back in California? This was the reason I'd refused to take the house even when he'd offered. The overwhelming fear of staying there by myself, feeling the lack of company echoing back at me from the walls where once the sounds of him would have lived.

A tiny scuff—so soft that I almost wrote it off as my own breath catching in my throat—snapped my head toward a door just ahead and to my right. A voice that sounded an awful lot like my therapist warned me against stepping toward it, but my feet refused to obey. I leaned closer to the door, pressing my ear against it. From inside the room, a muffled whoosh, like a window sliding up.

I held my breath, my hand hovering over the knob. Suddenly, in one swift motion, I grabbed it, turned, and made to shoulder the door open.

Nothing happened. My fingers slipped uselessly around the polished brass. It was locked from the other side.

I strained to listen for another thirty seconds, but all I heard was my own breath, unnaturally loud in the still house.

I straightened, turned, and almost had a heart attack when I found Donovan inches from my face. I barely managed to swallow a scream, clamping my mouth shut and biting down on both lips.

"I thought I heard you call." He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he glanced between me and the door. "What are you doing?"

I stiffened, suddenly remembering who he was and everything he'd been accused of. What if he thought I was snooping, that I'd seen something I shouldn't have? And yet I wasn't worried for my safety. I was afraid he would send me away.

"I—I'm...I was looking for the bathroom, and this was locked, and I thought that might be it but I didn't know if you were inside...."

"You could have used the one in the bedroom."

I mentally facepalmed. Dumbest excuse ever. My fingers slid the keychains around the ring absently, the clinks the only sound to break the silence.

"It felt weird," I finally whispered. "To go in there when her stuff...I mean, it was your bedroom, wasn't it?"

His whole face slackened. I watched as he transformed, slinking back inside himself to a darkness only few understood. I kicked myself for bringing it out in him, but at the same time I craved it. I had only ever seen it in myself, and the prospect of having someone who knew what that felt like both broke my heart and accelerated it.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to...."

"It's fine." He said it so quickly that I knew it wasn't.

I hung my head, staring at the patterns on the wooden floor. "I should go."

I started to step around him, but he caught my arm, his eyes wild. "Stay."

I froze.

"Please," he added.

I opened my mouth to refuse, but I already knew I couldn't. Not with his blond hair and blue eyes staring at me like Mark once had, offering a second chance. A chance to be needed again.

A soft thump from the locked room broke the moment, and I jumped as I nearly cricked my neck turning toward it. All thoughts of my guilt flew right out my ears as I realized the truth.

Donovan had been downstairs. And I thought he'd been inside this room, but now he stood before me while something still moved in there.

Hardly daring to breathe, I took one step back. Then another, and another, until the distance between us had stretched far enough for rational thought.

"I need to go," I repeated, more firmly this time.

Something vanished from his eyes, something whose absence would have alarmed me if I hadn't grown used to seeing it in the mirror over the years. My heart stabbed at my chest, calling me a monster as I started to turn away.

"At least let me drop you off." He spoke like a dying man bargaining for his life, bargaining for just another second with me.

I shook my head. "I'll take the bus," I choked, ducking around him and fleeing down the hall.

This time, he didn't even try to stop me.