Instead, I excused myself and said I needed the bathroom.
I didn’t go to the bathroom.
I walked past it, down the hall, and turned into my father’s office.
The door was ajar. Trevor had always treated that room like command central—tax folders lined up by year, bills clipped into categories, warranties filed, labels facing outward. As a kid I had found the order comforting. As an adult I understood it for what it was: control disguised as discipline. The lamp on his desk was still on. A legal pad sat open beside his laptop. And directly in the center of the desk, as if the universe had decided it was done asking me to ignore obvious things, was a manila folder with Sabrina’s name written across the tab in my father’s tidy block letters.
I opened it.
