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“These are so bad.” Margot is laughing as she goes through a stack of old dance pictures, just like the first one. When she bursts into a fit of laughter, I know exactly what she’s laughing at, and I can’t help my smile.

“Margot,” Roman warns, and she flits her hand at him in dismissal. This is the weirdest experience of my life.

“You and Sasha make beautiful kittens,” Margot says, laughter tapering off. It was Sasha’s first and only year of dance class and my last year. We were twelve, and our instructor had wanted to do choreography for the sad song from the Cats musical.

In the picture, Sasha and I wear cat onesies Mom found at the store and our makeup is over the top. We had even glued whiskers onto each other. It was simultaneously the dumbest and funnest thing I’d ever done in my life.

“Is Sasha okay?” I ask.

The energy in the room shifts, and Margot looks over her shoulder at Roman. His elbows are resting on his bent knees, and he’s staring right at me. He doesn’t look at his friend as he orders her not to say anything.

“Please?” Sasha will have done everything she’s supposed to do. She will have called the police, and she’ll be worried sick.

“Find me something in that box, Gwyn, and I’ll consider it.” He stands, offering his hand out to Margot to help her up. “I’m going to go get some folding chairs or something because I’m not sitting on the fucking floor. Give me something I don’t know from this pile of bullshit by the time I’m back, and I’ll consider telling you what your sister is up to.”

It’s a start, and I’m on the floor digging through Dad’s things before they even get out the door. This box is mostly full of photo albums and a few personal effects. I’m tossing the photo albums onto the ground, one by one, searching for something that will satisfy Roman. I shuffle through a folder of old school papers of mine before tossing it back on the pile. Disappointed I found nothing that will satisfy him, I lean forward and pluck the oldest photo album from the stack, opening it up to see pictures of my pregnant birth mother.

Cynthia is tall, about the same height as me, and I take after her in most ways. The black, pin-straight hair is the most noticeable feature, but I share quite a few other traits with her. In this picture, I notice her smile. She’s grinning at the cameraman, probably my father, and I trace the swell of her overalls, the rounded belly hiding me within it.

There’s another picture of the two of them, my dad wrapping his arm around her while he kisses her forehead. I’m staring at my dad in this picture, his hair combed neatly and his mustache tidy. I can’t imagine him killing anyone, let alone a mother in front of her sons. But would Roman lie about that? Neither situation makes sense to me, and I struggle to wrap my head around it. I’m angry at my father for keeping me in the dark. Shaking my head, I flip through the pictures again, looking for any hint that my parents were murderers. There are only a few more photographs of my mother after this one, and it feels like a countdown as I flip through the pages.

It’s strange to not have any pictures of me with the person who brought me into this world. We only existed together for a very short time, and it’s surreal to think about. The last picture of my parents is them standing in front of the Neptune statue in Virginia Beach while on vacation, Cynthia’s hands resting comfortably on top of her belly.

The rest of that page is blank. There’s a gap in the album as if time stopped completely. Perhaps it did for him.

Roman comes back in as I turn the page, Margot no longer with him. He sets up a folding table and chairs in the corner before sprawling out on one, his long limbs stretching into the room. I am strangely calm, photographs of my family centering me. They’re why I’m in this mess of shit, but I have hope that I will convince Roman I am a victim of circumstance, nothing more. I ignore him, frustrated I found nothing worthwhile for him so I could ask about Sasha.

The first picture of me has to be at least six months later. Probably more considering I’m standing, frowning down at a doll I hold in my hand. I have the faintest wisps of dark hair, and I’m only in a diaper. I look quite serious in all my baby pictures, and I wonder if it’s because I understood, on some intrinsic level, the cost of my entrance into the world.

“Nothing?” Roman asks, and I realize, based on the look on his face, that he’s already been through this box and knew I wouldn’t find anything about his brother. I don’t lift my head, flipping forward a few pages to my first birthday party.

Scanning each picture for a familiar face, I find him, and I smile as I peel the plastic from the corner of the album. Freeing the photograph from the sticky paper, I stand and walk it over to him.

“This is my dad’s best friend, Charlie. I’m the baby in that picture, so they go way back. We moved away from him when I was young, though, so I haven’t seen him in a long time. He didn’t come to the funerals, but they talked regularly.”

“Yeah, he called on untraceable burner phones,” Roman murmurs, and I just blink at him. Of course he already knows who Charlie is.

Roman takes the picture from my hand, looking at the old photograph. I’m sitting in my dad’s lap, face covered in birthday cake, and Charlie stands in the background, beaming at my dad. His hair was already greying back then, and he looks like he could be my grandfather.

“What’s his last name and where is he from?” Roman asks, and I press my lips together, fighting the compulsion.

“Promise,” I bite out. Roman raises a brow, and I think he might be impressed. “Won’t. Hurt. Him.”

“If he killed my brother, Gwyn, there’s nothing on this planet that can stop me from hurting him.”

“Okay. If he didn’t though?” I ask and bite down hard on my lip. He smiles as he watches me wince. His eyes linger on my mouth, and I wonder if he’s just waiting for me to draw blood.

“Fine. If he didn’t hurt Remy, I won’t—”

“Palmer!” I yell, exhaling hard. “And Minnesota or Wisconsin or something.”

He pulls out his phone, taking a picture of the photograph in his hands, before he types out a text message. When his gaze lifts to mine, I take a step back. I hadn’t realized how close I stood to him. He reaches up and snatches my hand, pulling me to stand between his spread legs. He spins me and pulls me back against his chest, holding his phone in front of me.

He pulls up an app on his phone, and I inhale quickly when he shows me a black-and-white image of my living room.

“Of course you have cameras at my place.”

It’s Saturday, so I’m not surprised to see Charlotte is sitting in Hale’s lap, watching the out of frame television, while Hale frowns at my bedroom door. Roman clicks an arrow at the top of the page, and the camera swaps to one in my bedroom.