I stare at her. Going through Kane’s private things seems like snooping through a diary. And throwing it all out? I have to remember that Kane was never one to be sentimental. He keeps stuff for one reason only: he’s a slob. He’ll probably be glad if I help him to clean his closet.

She gives me a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags, and I get to work. I throw away more recent junk, like the crown he got as prom king, the cheap, gilded aluminum bent beyond recognition. I look in a shoebox and toss the flowers he got for Valentine’s Day, all of them nothing more than brown, shriveled petals. The cover had been on so securely that I don’t think he looked at the messages again after that day.

By afternoon, I’m finding stuff that probably hasn’t seen the light of day since elementary school—vocabulary books, a cracked Frisbee from a restaurant that closed down ten years ago, a leash for Mimsy, the dog he had that ran away when we were in kindergarten. I have to hold my nose to keep from gagging, because the closet smells a little like Kane, but mostly like body odor and rot.

Sitting back, I stretch and massage my aching back, surveying my progress. My stomach is growling. I’ve spent hours on this and have three giant bags of garbage, but looking at the closet, I’ve barely made a dent. And what’s that thing on the floor? An ancient, calcified cheese stick? Gross.

As I lean forward to dig in again, Mrs. Weeks comes by, balancing baby Cooper on her hip. “Wow,” she says. “I’m surprised you haven’t uncovered the lost city of Atlantis yet.”

“There’s still time,” I mumble.

“Well, I have lunch on the table,” she says. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Come down and take a break.”

“Thanks. I will in a minute,” I tell her, wiping my hands on my shirt.

She leaves to feed the baby. I’m about to follow her downstairs when I notice a glistening gold statue, hidden underneath an old papier-mâché art project. I lift it out, wondering how it could’ve gotten in there. It’s a baseball trophy, the biggest one he has, the one he got from regionals two years ago. When I yank it free of all the other junk, the base is bent. No, not bent. It’s broken.

Nothing a little wood glue wouldn’t fix. I sigh. Kane was probably too lazy to do even that, which is why it ended up where it was. I start to set it aside, thinking that of all the junk in this closet, that’s one thing he definitely wouldn’t want me to throw away.

Then I notice the corner of the broken base is crusted with dried blood.

The Day Of