“I looked through their windows, but there was nothing weird,” he says. “It’s just a house. A lot tidier than ours, but…nothing out of the ordinary. I was coming back when I heard the wind chimes.”

Zak moves the flashlight slightly until I can see the slivers of silver hanging overhead. Every now and then, the faint breeze catches them just enough to make them tinkle. But that’s not what I’m looking at. There’s something else: a box hanging from the same branch with a flower drawn on the side.

I’ve seen the same drawing in Amy’s journal—hundreds of variations of that intricate design.

“Can you see it?” Zak asks, and I reach up, my fingers brushing the bottom of the wood.

“Yes.”

With a stretch, I can just manage to unhook it, placing it between us on the grass and stepping back.

Opening boxes isn’t always a good idea, but what choice do we have? I run my fingers over the wood, and it’s surprisingly smooth. Whoever made this spent a lot of time on it.

Zak holds the phone closer as I lift the latch, then peer inside. Nothing jumps out; nothing changes. All we can see is paper.

I should be at home by now. Someone will be asking where I am. But, instead, I reach inside and unfold the top sheet, then another, then a third. In Amy’s handwriting, they all say the same thing:

I’m sorry.

68

“We need to put it back,” I say, stuffing the notes in the box and reaching for the hook.

“Why?” Zak replies. “Isn’t this important?”

“I think so. But if she knows we found it…”

This isn’t an answer. It’s another question. What’s Amy sorry for? And why is she hanging it from a tree? I can’t be certain who wrote the words on my wall, but I’d recognize her handwriting in a heartbeat.

This is how she writes now. It’s identical to the words I photographed when she left her journal unguarded. She wrote some of these recently, at least the ones on top.

I check my phone and see that I’ve been gone for nearly ten minutes. If they haven’t already sent Aaron to check on me, they will soon.

“Come on,” I say.

I don’t wait for Zak to answer. There’s no trash can on this side of the wall, but, a few feet down, there’s a stack of garden chairs.

If we move them, they’ll know. But we can’t get over the spikes, so what choice do we have? After dragging them to the safe spot, I point for Zak to go first. There’s just enough height for him to reach the top row of bricks and pull himself over. When I hear a thud on the other side, I copy him.