Satisfied, I kiss his cheek, then move to the counter to pour a cup of coffee into my favorite mug—a ceramic disaster Veronica bought from an artist in town that Cheryl hates so much she keeps it buried deep inside the cabinet. I’m the only one who uses it and every time I bring it out Cheryl dies a little inside.

“Just be grateful for your nice little brotherly sleepover. I’m stuck spooning with fucking Veronica.”

Graham laughs empathetically, probably imagining the two of us at fourteen, sharing a pillow, whispering about boys we like and girls we think are prettier than us. In reality, I’ll probably sneak some Benadryl into her drink so she passes out by ten.

“Speaking of...any sign of life in this house besides us?” I ask, a seemingly innocuous question. What I want to know is: Have you heard anything from your brother? Any movement behind those thick bedroom walls?

Graham is the dictionary definition of a morning person. The kind of person who thinks you’ve wasted your day if you wake after nine; who mocks you with morning, sunshine or thanks for joining us when you come downstairs after him. His body clock is rigidly set and there’s nothing that can stop him from excitedly opening his eyes at six thirty on the dot every day and that makes him better than all of us. So, as expected, I’ve become a morning person, too. And, because I don’t ever do anything half-assed, I’ve become another thing he can brag about—My fiancée has already run three miles, what have you done with your day?

“Mom and Dad went into town for breakfast. Nothing from Reed and Veronica yet...”

I thought about the missing poster. How they may have reacted when they saw it on the floor—Bernadette’s face staring up at them as they left to get coffee or water or something equally innocent. I wish I could have seen it.

I turn to ask Graham another question, but stop when I notice Lorraine, standing near the breakfast nook in the corner, hiding in the shadow of the open pantry door, sipping coffee and watching us. She stands so still she could blend in with the wallpaper behind her. She doesn’t seem charmed by our banter, by my kisses and thoughtfully placed touches. She seemed wary, her eyes thin, eyebrows raised, her mouth unmoving. Normally I’d call it Resting Bitch Face but I recently decided I hated that term. Not smiling doesn’t mean she’s a bitch.