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I scowl, heat streaming through my blood.

I will never understand how she could’ve mistreated Xander.

Growling, I throw the photo on the bed and double-check that Xander is still in the bathroom. I probably shouldn’t be snooping, but there doesn’t seem to be anything that I shouldn’t be seeing in here.

The next photo is one taken of a drawing. It looks like a landscape. You can tell a child drew it, but it’s pretty impressive. It's a green landscape. Trees, hills, with a small lake in the middle.

I wonder who drew that.

The next lot of photos are all similar. All drawings of various things. All using the same green colour, even if the picture doesn’t warrant the use of green.

I assume these are Xander’s. I can see a running theme with green here. He must’ve been a fan of the colour when he was younger.

I giggle at the thought of him fixating on something trivial.

There’s one photo of three stickmen, one with long hair and one much shorter than the other two. But the stickman with long hair is scribbled over quite aggressively. I squint my eyes to see what’s written in the corner of the drawing.

‘She hit me again today’.

My stomach drops, that tightness returning to my throat. I discard the picture to the one with his mother in it.

The second to last photo is of Xander again, cuddling a green teddy. That wide smile is on his face still, and he’s looking right at the camera. The last photo is similar, but he’s in bed, cuddling the teddy. I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I place the set of photos next to the box and pick up the flimsy piece of fabric, the sound of the shower still streaming in through the bathroom door.

That must’ve been the teddy. He must’ve really loved the shit out of it.

But nothing could prepare me for what I see in the box next.

It’s a drawing.

A real drawing. Using what looks like charcoal.

It’s a body. It looks like mine… But I don’t know if my eyes deceive me. There’s no face, just a body wearing an awfully similar outfit to the one I wore at Diamond Lounge.

But it doesn’t stop there. There are multiple. All of that same body. That’s when I reach a drawing of a face.

Then different pages with all different parts of a face.

My face.

A close-up, with my eyes coloured in green.

Then another one. Me, chained to his bed, sleeping.

I swallow. I had no idea he had these. I didn’t even know he drew until now.

Did he draw these? He must have.

My breathing starts picking up as I place the drawings down onto the bed.

There’s a car key. One that looks an awful lot like my old car key.

A document with an attached picture of a busted-up engine. It looks like someone hit it repeatedly with a hammer. I slide the photo out of the clip.

‘Engine damaged beyond fixing. Engine replacement required. Oil leak. Engine damage caused by own fault.

Owner requests to scrap the car.

Signed by Camila Wilder.’