‘This place looked like – I mean, straight up, it was some John Nash shit. I put everything on the walls. Any pictures I could find. Pictures of us. Stuff from his room. Old schoolwork. To the point where I was hiding it because I knew it was fucking weird. Like, I tried to keep Mom out for as long as I could. Even Cole didn’t know about it. Mom saw and had me take it down. Turned out instead of grieving I was building a shrine, which might sound not all that bad, but –’

‘It was,’ Cole said.

Leo sighed, then looked towards me. ‘You know that feeling where, like, the world is spinning at a thousand miles an hour and there’s nothing you can do to stop it and then you start to feel like there’s nothing you can do about anything ever?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, because I sort of did.

He shrugged. ‘I just wanted something to do that was … tangible. Something that I could look at and say, hey, I have the power to impact this.’

I found myself with an unwelcome curiosity: how he’d done it. His brother. Was it in the house? But for maybe the first time, that went away, because looking at Leo and this lone picture on his wall was enough to affirm for me that really, it didn’t matter at all. I didn’t need the gory details. I didn’t want them. All that mattered was that he was gone and Leo was alive to deal with it.

And then the subject of my visit came up: the list.

I’d made a list of all of Dad’s patients based on the folders, and we were planning on doing a thorough search of each and seeing if anything incriminating came up. Leo had convinced me; I’d been hesitant at first, and still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but he seemed confident that we’d find something.

Leo and I began to sort through the names. He started from A and I worked backwards from Z, and even though we had music playing and were joking occasionally, I was growing increasingly frustrated. There was almost nothing about anyone online, and even when there was, I felt strange; guilty, mostly, because we really shouldn’t have been going through the names in the first place, but also annoyed because this felt completely pointless. Just because someone had driven drunk once didn’t make them a serial killer.

But Leo insisted. Because we had to do something.

Doing something, though, wasn’t really the same thing as accomplishing anything, and I grew disillusioned with the activity quickly. We weren’t going to find anything. I continued looking just to appease him.

Eventually, he said what I’d been in equal parts anticipating and dreading: ‘June Copeland.’ Leo smirked at me.