“You don’t have to do this today,” she said.

His jaw tightened in resolve. “Yes, I do,” he whispered.

The key entered the lock. The sound was small, but the effect was enormous. The door opened with a soft, long sigh. Dust and the faint scent of lavender drifted out, and Maya stepped inside after him.

The room was a child’s bedroom, frozen perfectly in time: pale yellow walls, white curtains, shelves full of picture books. A tiny pair of red shoes sat near the wardrobe, and stuffed animals were arranged on the bed, waiting faithfully for a child who would never return.

On the pillow lay another wooden rabbit—not the chipped one from the library, but a second one, newer and unbroken.

Arthur stared at it as if struck by lightning. Behind them in the hallway, Mrs. Gordon gasped.