But this time, there was another person in the room.

And he looked even more betrayed than I felt.

“No,” the man said, turning fully toward her now. “You don’t get to do that. You told me he was gone. You said there was an accident. You said this house was yours because you’d lost everything else.”

Claire’s eyes sharpened.

“Evan,” she warned.

So his name was Evan.

I’d never heard it before, but the way she said it told me she’d said it many times when I wasn’t around.

I stepped back from the doorway, giving both of them room to walk out, because I suddenly didn’t want the scene to stay in the bathroom. It felt too small for the lie that had just crawled into the light.

“Come out,” I said.

Claire’s mouth tightened.

“Mason, don’t make this worse.”

“It’s already worse,” I said. “You just haven’t caught up yet.”

Evan grabbed a hand towel and dried his fingers too carefully, as if he needed the small task to keep from shaking. He looked around the bathroom like he was seeing it for the first time. The matching toothbrush cups. The framed photo from our trip to Lake Erie. The little basket of hotel soaps Claire collected and never used.

Then his eyes stopped on the towel hook beside the door.

Our initials were stitched into the white cotton.