Having finished the piles on the desk (and on top of the filing cabinet and in corners, lurking like monsters in a nightmare), Jennifer had moved on to the inside of the filing cabinet.

It wasn’t a typical metal filing cabinet, but rather a beat-up wooden relic with rows of drawers, all neatly labeled in the same spiky handwriting that she’d found on a few papers scattered around. In contrast, most of the papers piled on the desk had been in a blocky handwriting, and Jennifer had spent the afternoon idly trying to figure out which handwriting was the father’s, and which one was the son’s.

She pulled a cabinet drawer open and found file folders, neatly labeled by year, tabs marching through the drawer like soldiers, and instantly knew that this settled it – the son&r...

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