And I accepted every single one, obeying Alex's demands in almost self-punishing obedience, becoming a laughingstock in the local press.
Because I was terrified he'd leave me.
Until six months ago.
A box of film negatives arrived.
And I finally learned the truth about Ethan's death.
Through the haze, I swore I heard him calling "Mom" again.
I touched his photo and murmured, "Soon, Ethan. Mommy will get you justice. Very soon."
The next morning, before dawn, the bedroom door swung open.
Lily strolled in and sprawled across my bed like she owned it. She picked up Ethan's photo and laughed.
"So this is the dead kid."
"You still keep his picture around? Aren't you afraid it'll bring bad luck?"
I snatched it back and clutched it to my chest, voice ice-cold. "Get out."
She stuck her tongue out, unafraid.
The moment Alex walked in, she ran into his arms, tugging his hand, voice syrupy. "Honey, you said I could stay wherever I wanted. I pick this room."
"The windows are huge."
Without bothering to hide it, she pulled out little toys meant for lovers and set them on the nightstand—right where Ethan's photo had been.
Alex frowned and glanced at me, wanting to speak but stopping himself.