“That way.”

John led her to the hallway, keeping wide of Jen’s slumped body; Charlie forced herself not to look directly at her, allowing herself to see only a dark, hunched shape in the corner of her eye as she passed. At the end of the hall was the open door to a storage room, filled with trunks and cardboard boxes. The window was open, and it was not until she breathed fresh air that Charlie noticed the damp, moldy smell that had taken over the rest of the house.

“This one,” John said. He was standing beside a large green trunk, its lid standing open.

“In here?” Charlie said bleakly, stepping over several boxes to get to him. She peered inside: there was a small pillow, and nothing else. “I was just in there?” she asked, somehow disappointed.

“Yeah. I mean, Jen must have had a reason. She must have known about the imposter. Maybe she put you there just before we arrived.”

Charlie reached out and closed the trunk. “I want to look around.”

“What are we looking for?” John asked, and she shrugged, opening another trunk.

“Anything,” she said. “If there’s anything useful, this is where it will be. We need to know what we’re up against.”

They searched in silence for a while. None of the boxes were labeled, and Charlie opened them haphazardly, sifting quickly through the ones containing paperwork, and setting aside the others unexamined. Those contained random assortments of household items—dishes and silverware, knickknacks Charlie recognized from childhood, even some of her old toys. She scanned a box of Jen’s tax documents carefully, then replaced them, finding nothing that seemed to stand out. She reached for another box, then saw John giving her a funny look.

“What?” she asked. He smiled, and there was a hint of something sad beyond it.

“You read really fast,” was all he said.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to speed-read?” she said briefly, then turned her attention elsewhere. Charlie abandoned the stack of boxes she had been going through and went to the far corner of the room. She shoved a precarious pile of neatly folded sheets and towels aside, and sat down cross-legged on the carpet. From here, she could not even see John, though she could hear him, shuffling through paper and muttering to himself under his breath. She swept her eyes up and down the stacks, one after another, then she saw it: Henry, written in her aunt’s careful script. Charlie moved three overcoats and another box, and then it was in her hands.