I take notes in a journal, jotting down little tidbits, as Frank talks: Her name was Madeline. She liked apricots and Bolognese. She had this high-pitched, beautiful laugh. She’d read three books to Carrie every night. Her favorite color was green.

When there’s a lull in Frank’s speech, I clear my throat. “Madeline. Is that what you called her? Or what her friends called her? Did she have any pet names? Nicknames?”

“Maddy. Everyone called her Maddy.”

Elliot moves through the room waving an EMF meter, pushing it near the walls.

“What’s that? What’s he doing?” Frank asks.

“Oh. Checking electromagnetic fields.” I try to sound as confident as Jackson, but my voice seems high-pitched and strange.

Frank studies Elliot. “Is it…are you getting anything?”

“Definitely,” Elliot says. “Especially in the basement. Really hot down there.”

Frank nods, clenching and unclenching his hands. “She used to run a tailoring business out of the basement. Spent a lot of time there. We didn’t need the money. She just really enjoyed it. Creating.”

Frank’s cheek trembles. I pretend to write something down. Please don’t cry, I think. Please don’t lose it. It’s harder when they cry. Harder to fake that I have the answers.

“It’s been touch and go,” Frank says. “Especially with Carrie. She’s so young. One step forward, couple steps back. You know?”

“Yeah,” I say, a familiar ache echoing in my ribcage.

“How long ago was it for you?” Frank studies me. “With your mother?”

I smile, trying to keep my voice steady. “Ten years. This December.”

“I read the article on your website.” Frank pats my hand reassuringly. “Must’ve been difficult.”

“It’s okay. Thanks.” I silently curse Jackson. I told him to take down that article, though I know why he keeps it up. People love hearing about how tragic it is that our mother offed herself. It makes me sick, and I almost want to get up and run to the bathroom, but I hold my ground. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can go home.

Frank continues talking about Maddy. He tells me they’d get in fights sometimes, but would always manage to make up in a couple of hours. I smile when Frank tells me this, but mostly I try to not hold on too tightly to what he says. It’s haunting enough remembering the fragments of strangers we’ve worked with in the past.

We should have started by now, but Jackson is nowhere to be found. I excuse myself from Frank and go looking for my brother. Down the hall, a little past the kitchen, the toilet flushes. I hear rummaging and the faucet turning on and off. The door opens abruptly and Jackson rolls out, his eyes red. When he sees me, his sniffs hard.