I stop and listen, hearing some faint noises upstairs. I head up without announcing myself, lightly grasping the cold and black stair railing. At the top, I hear the noise again, and it sounds like someone talking. Maybe it’s Cora and Peter, or just a television, but in this moment, all I can think of is that scene twenty-two years ago when Caleb Benner burst from Cora’s room, bloodied and desperate, stumbling down the hallway toward me.

The master bedroom door at the end of this hallway is closed. I take a few more steps and pass Willow’s bedroom on the right. Her door is open, light on. No one’s inside, and the room is a maelstrom of dirty clothes, rumpled sheets and blankets, makeup supplies, and schoolwork papers. Curiously, her walls are nearly bare—just two mirrors and a poster. The poster catches my eye because it looks so out of place in a teenage girl’s room. I step inside to get a better look.

I’m utterly chilled as the image comes into better focus. It’s a line drawing, quite well done, of a woman sitting at the bottom of a staircase. Her face is severe, her expression a controlled rage, ink-black hair pulled tightly back into a bun. She’s wearing a black, puritanical dress buttoned to the neck, white collar circling her neck. I think Hester Prynne, but I know that’s not right. I know because Hester Prynne wasn’t known for clutching a hatchet in her hands, which this woman is doing. There’s a single word in bold type at the bottom of the poster: Lizzie.

Jesus Christ. My niece has only one poster on her bedroom walls, and it’s a drawing of Lizzie Borden?

I’m now less intrigued by snooping in this house and am much more concerned about finding Max. I leave Willow’s room and walk quickly down the hallway to the master bedroom. I’m about to knock on the door when I pause and listen a moment.

The sounds from behind the door leave no doubt as to what I’m listening to: sex. Either Peter and Cora are in there together or someone is watching porn. My immediate discomfort is quickly supplanted by anger; I leave Max for a few hours with my family, and instead of spending time with him, they disappear to screw? I look at my watch. It’s not even eight thirty.

I don’t knock. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet at least.

I turn and head back downstairs.

Living room. No one. Same goes for family room. Basement. Laundry room and even the garage.

Then, as I’m in the garage, I notice a glow through the glass of the door leading from the garage to the back patio. I thread my way along the wall until I reach the door, and as I peer through, I see Max.

Max and Willow. They’re sitting in chairs on the back patio, each of the kids bundled in a fleece blanket. Their backs face me and they’re hunching toward the flames rising from a large stone firepit in the center of the patio. After my eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the dark, I recognize what they’re doing. Roasting marshmallows.