I reread the note again, the realization of what I held in my hands making my heart soar. This was the confirmation I’d needed to confront my darkest thoughts. Whether I remembered it or not, this was proof Celine had decided not to come home of her own accord. Maybe I’d encouraged her to leave, yes, but who wouldn’t have, considering her father beat her on a regular basis and her mother did nothing to stop it? Keenan had it all wrong. It wasn’t my fault.

As I read the words again, and then a third time seeking even more reassurance, an uncomfortable sinking feeling I couldn’t place, nor understand, pulled at my stomach. I turned the card over to look at the front picture again and something darted through my mind. Butterflies. Butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colors, hundreds of them, so vivid it felt as if I could catch one with my bare hands.

I called out to Fiona, and when she turned around and saw what I held between my fingers, her face fell. She rushed back and I gave her the postcard, an inexplicable feeling of relief invading my soul as she took it from me.

She clasped it to her chest. “My bookmark! I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it.”

“It’s from Celine,” I said, my voice sounding shaky and uncertain.

“It arrived a year after she left,” she said. “I showed you as soon as it arrived and... Of course, you can’t remember. I should’ve thought to share it with you again. I’m an idiot.”

“Did Celine ever send anything else?”

“No. She hasn’t written or called since. This postcard is the last we heard from her.”

I nodded. “Celine loved butterflies.”

“Yes.” Fiona smiled. “They were her favorite thing in the world, aside from you. You took her to the butterfly gardens once. She talked about it for weeks, before and after.” She pulled out her phone, flicked through her photos, held out the screen. It was an old, grainy picture of Celine. In it she wore a light blue summer dress, her long dark hair tied up in a ponytail, her head tilted back, the delight of a full-on laugh captured on her face. She seemed so young, so carefree and happy. Fiona zoomed in on her sister’s neck, and I watched as a silver-and-amethyst butterfly pendant filled the screen.

“You bought it for her that day,” she said. “She loved that necklace. Never took it off. Not once. I bet you she still hasn’t.”

“You must miss her very much.”