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My face is pale. My eyes are wide, glassy, frozen in a stare that doesn’t quite meet the camera. There’s something vacant there, hollow, as though the real me had slipped out of my body moments before the shutter clicked.

The dress I’m wearing is slightly askew, the strap falling off one shoulder.

A detail so small it screams.

A tremor rolls through me, violent and sudden. My knees weaken, and I stumble back, bumping into the edge of the table. The sound of the collision jars me, but I still can’t tear my eyes away.

A coppery taste floods my mouth from where I’m biting my lip, willing away the tears.

My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out the silence of the room.

I don’t remember this.

I don’t want to remember this.

But something inside me does.

The snap of a belt. The stifling scent of whiskey. Pressure on my shoulder that never left. A phantom ache blooms across my back like it never healed. My fingers twitch as if they might tear the photograph apart, destroy it before it destroys me.

But I can’t move.

I can only stare at that stiff, broken girl and wonder how much of her I left behind in that room.

How could I not remember this?

Was this before anything had happened?

Was my mom still alive then?

The room spins around me, my vision narrowing as fragmented memories flash like jagged lightning: his voice, low and commanding; the heavy hush that fell over the house when he entered; the way the shadows seemed to thicken wherever he stood.

I flip to the next picture.

Another child, no older than I was, sits on the edge of a bed, their shoulders slumped, their face turned slightly away from the camera. The light in the room is dim, but it’s enough to capture their hollow expression.

The sadness in their eyes grips me like a vice.

Their clothes are disheveled, a shirt hanging loosely from one shoulder, socks mismatched. A flush of heat burns through me as I take in the background.

It’s not just any room.

It’s this house.

The wallpaper gives it away, the pale blue flowers, faded and wilting with age. The same ones still clinging to the wall of the room next door to this one.

I flip to the next photograph, my hands trembling.

Another child. A little girl. Younger. Tear-streaked cheeks, visible even in the grainy image. She’s partially dressed. Her vulnerability is palpable.

A sharp wave of nausea grips me.

I press a hand to my stomach, the bile rising in my throat.

I know this little girl.

It’s Cindy.

Clyde’s younger sister.