Chapter 23: The Lake House, Sunday

The lake house was lit from top to bottom when we pulled up on Sunday evening.

Every box had been unpacked, and Sasha's things were gone from the kitchen, the hall and the room at the top of the stairs.

Alessia stood in the driveway with her rib brace under her hoodie and looked at the windows.

"It smells like lemons," she said.

"Eli," I said.

"He used the good cleaner."

Dario carried in a bag of groceries, which had cereal in it again.

Alessia took the stairs to the studio over the garage two at a time, then slowed, holding her side.

I followed her up and stood in the doorway.

Her easel stood in the north window, and her drafting table sat where she had always kept it.

The shelves held her books in their old order and her pencils in their jars.

A stack of boxes stood by the wall with her name on them in blocky capitals.

I knew the handwriting.

"He labeled them," she said.

"Yes."

"The ones for the kitchen say kitchen. The ones with my sweaters say sweaters, not clothes."

She pressed her lips together.

"He remembered I hate when they say clothes."

On the table in front of the window lay her old pen, the one with the chipped barrel.

She had lost it in September, and we had never found it.

A scrap of paper was folded under it.

Found this in one of Sasha's boxes. I think she took it.

Alessia put the pen in her left hand and held it very still.

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