He reads the postcard. A brief frown flashes across his face—but when he finally looks up at you, his expression is neutral. “Ah, well,” he says. “I guess news of the accident much have reached her somehow.” He stands up and begins to walk away. “Better wash up before your aunt gets home,” he says, retreating from the kitchen.

Still holding the postcard, you squint at the handwriting. “Celia.” Something about the name does sound familiar. You slowly stand and make your way to your room. You walk inside and turn to sit at the small wooden desk in the corner. Once seated, you open the desk drawer and reach for . . .