Linda—that’s the neighbor’s name—unlocks the front door and says, “Please, go on in.”

Maddie, I think, and it’s the last thought I have because soon I’m not capable of thinking, only feeling. The whole house is full of her presence. It’s well lit with lots of light-colored furniture. The walls are plastered with pictures of Maddie dancing, smiling, and reading, sometimes alone, sometimes with her parents. Her parents are always holding hands and leaning toward each other.

Is this how fate strikes, so cruelly? This house used to be filled with laughter, kindness, trust, countless plans—and love. The loss of this love lingers on in the rooms like a plaintive echo.

“I’ll wait in the kitchen, okay? Take your time. All the time you need.” Eddie lets me explore Maddie’s world on my own. I feel half thief, half archaeologist.

There are pictures of dancers hanging on the wall above the stairs. They’re twirling onstage, on tightropes, in the street, everywhere.

I hear a loud clatter downstairs. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m packing some pictures for Maddie. Pictures and a few other things she’s sure to want to have. We’ll let Linda know what we’re taking with us. Okay?”

I have no idea if it’s okay or if it might land us in jail. I couldn’t care less if it did.

There’s a silence in the room of the kind you only find in places where people no longer sleep or laugh or hold hands. My mother and Steve’s bedroom is sometimes this quiet.

There’s a pile of books beside her bed. A mirror and a bar run along the whole of one wall, and a carefully rolled-up yoga mat stands nearby. A metal gull is attached to the papered wall above her bed. It has a gently curved yellow beak, outspread silvery-gray, black-tipped wings, and a structure of fine, delicate bones is visible on the gull’s underside. A herring gull that’s common in Brittany. A powerful bird. Not one you would expect to find in a girl’s bedroom, but so typical of Maddie.

My heart is hanging by a thread. I sit down gently on the bed, pull back the covers, bury my face in her pillow, and weep. I miss her, I miss myself, I miss my father. The pillow smells of coconut shampoo, washing powder, and, very faintly, past warmth.

I lie down on the edge of the bed. What could Maddie see from this position? Shirley MacLaine. A complete collection of Famous Five books. Her ballet shoes. A picture of the pianist Clara Schumann. A Rolling Stones poster. And a few jars containing sand and soil. I go over to examine them. There’s a slip of paper under each jar. The contents are from various places she has visited.