Chapter 3
Holly said, "Yeah, that's what happens with old houses. Hearing some creaks and stuff is totally normal. You're always letting your imagination run wild, sweetie. Now eat, before the food gets cold."
Honestly, they acted way too chill about it, like they had had this conversation fifty times already.
But I definitely saw the momentary stiffness in Holly's smile and the flicker of panic in Ralph's eyes.
They were lying.
After dinner, I claimed I needed to look for some old high school notes and made my way up to the attic alone.
The attic was overflowing with forgotten stuff, and the air was thick with dust.
I turned on my flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating boxes with labels one after another.
[Delilah's Awards,] [Delilah's Old Clothes,] [Delilah's Toys]—all stacked right in front of me.
Everything in this place seemed to revolve around me.
My heart sank as I started digging through stuff, not even sure what I was looking for.
Finally, at the very bottom of one box, my hand brushed against something solid—it was a hard-covered photo album.
The cover showed me as a tiny baby, just a hundred days old.
I flipped through the pages. It was a scrapbook of my whole life, every phase documented in these snapshots.
From my first wobbly steps up through elementary graduation, I was always rocking some fancy princess dress, with Ralph and Holly beaming on either side of me.
Then I turned to the last page.
It was a photo of me on the swing in our backyard, maybe four or five years old, laughing my head off.
Except down in the bottom right corner, there was a ripped-off piece, all jagged.
The edges looked rough and messy, like someone had torn it out with their bare hands.
Peeking through that tear, I could make out the edge of a blue shirt—and a finger tightly gripping the swing rope.
It definitely wasn't mine.
There used to be another child in this house.
I clutched that torn photo and made my way back downstairs.
When I came downstairs, Ralph and Holly were sitting together on the couch, watching TV. Holly looked up and gave me a warm smile.
"Find what you were looking for? Look at you, all covered in dust—go wash up," she teased.
I walked straight up to them and deliberately placed the photo on the polished coffee table, making sure the ripped corner was facing them.
As soon as their eyes landed on it, both of their faces went white as a sheet.
"What's this?" Ralph asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but I could still hear it shaking.
"You really don't recognize it?" I pressed.
I stared at them.
"Who did you tear out from this photo?" I asked.
Holly's lips trembled. Not a single word came out.
Ralph sprang up from the couch, pointing at me, his voice cracking between anger and panic.
"Delilah! Where the hell did you dig up all this crap? It's just a worthless old photo. Forget about it," he barked.
"Seriously, just a worthless photo?" I said.
I let out a laugh, but my eyes started to sting.
"If it was so worthless, why rip someone out of it like that? With your own hands?" I challenged.
Holly completely lost it. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. "Delilah, please! Don't ask anymore. Just stop—"
"I have to know who he is!" I shouted at her.
The confusion and fear that had been building up for eighteen years burst out completely at that moment.
Under my stare and Holly's sobs, Ralph finally couldn't hold it together anymore.
He slumped down onto the couch, and after a long, painful silence, spoke in a hollow, distant voice.
"He was your little brother, Harvey," Ralph said quietly.
"He had been a sickly child. We lost him the year you turned five—died of illness," Ralph explained, voice thick with sorrow.
"Died of illness." That was the answer they gave me. So simple, so hollow.