I crept downstairs, turning lights on as I went, my footsteps nearly noiseless yet somehow still pounding against my eardrums.

Kitchen. Living room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Save for the periodic banging behind Dad’s office door.

Bang.

Two seconds.

Bang.

Three seconds.

Bang.

The door to the office grew a pair of eyes and stared.

I moved closer, the world absolutely silent save for the banging and my heartbeat echoing in my skull. The world had never been so quiet and so loud.

Bang.

Closer, and the air around me grew colder. Colder. Bang. Colder still.

I twisted the knob and pushed, everything in me tensing, expecting … I wasn’t even sure what.

Empty.

The office was empty. But the door that led outside was wide open, slamming against the wall with each successive gust of wind.

And on Dad’s desk was the picture of me and him at Niagara Falls.

The glass had been shattered and strewn around the frame, the fractured shards like birds flying away.

Mom called the police, who responded more slowly than they otherwise would have in Pleasant Hills. (‘New Year’s, you know how it is.’) One police officer – a shorter-than-average mustachioed guy with a neck as wide as his head – had a look around, as did we; nothing was stolen, it looked like, and there were no signs of breaking and entering, no open windows or picked locks.

‘I … must have forgotten to lock the door,’ I said when Mom looked at me in surprise. But I couldn’t have. I swore I remembered locking it.

‘Does anyone besides you folks have keys?’

I realized. ‘Just my friend, Olivia. She lives across the street.’

He grunted. ‘You might want to have a chat with your friend Olivia.’

Ha. As if.

‘Well, if the door was open, isn’t there a chance it was – I don’t know – the wind?’ Mom asked. I shot her a look.

‘Not sure the photo would’ve been smashed the way it is on account of the wind. If you want my opinion, I think more than likely it was some drunk kids messing around. Saw an open door, thought they’d be funny, split when they heard you coming. They’re running amok tonight, I’ll tell you that. We’ve already had an accident on Miller, no one hurt, thank God –’

‘Here.’ I thrust my phone into his face. ‘I think it might have something to do with this.’

He took it, squinted, moved the phone away from his face and back again to try to find a distance at which he could actually read it. I felt Mom look at me. The policeman read it for a moment, then narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You gettin’ bullied?’