Page 216 of Hymns of the Broken

They march straight to the big kitchen table and drop the boxes with a thud that echoes through the room. Dust puffs into the air, motes catching the sunlight. Micah walks back outside without saying a word. For a second, nobody says anything. Even Riot, usually quick with a joke, stays silent.

“What’s all that?” I ask, voice rough.

Silas wipes his brow with the back of his hand looking from me, to the guys, then back at me. He looks uneasy for somebody who rarely shows emotion. “We found these in a locked closet at Blake’s place. Thought you’d want to see.”

What the fuck?

Jasper steps closer, eyes narrowing. “What’s in them?”

Silas hesitates, then pulls back the lid on the first box, revealing stacks of old manila folders, spiral notebooks, thick envelopes bulging with God knows what. Photos peek out from the corners, faded and bent.

Silas gives me an apologetic look. “Most of it’s got your name on it, Sawyer.”

My stomach drops. My hands clench tight around the glass, so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. Riot moves to my side, his presence grounding. “You wanna go through it, Hellcat? Or want us to do it first?”

I stare at the boxes, my own thoughts are too fast for me to even hear them. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again. “I need to see.”

Macee comes barreling into the room like her ass is on fire. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just concerned. I thought you might need me, so I’m here just in case.” She squeezes my hand as she finds herself a seat at the table, giving me some space.

Just then, Micah rounds the corner carrying two more boxes and plops them down next to the others. He notices my eyes widen and he says, “We found them in a hidden crawlspace under the floorboards in a locked closet. There’s more, but this is the worst of it.”

Riot’s hand finds my waist, and Jasper stands close on my other side, his jaw tight, murder in his eyes.

I nod, even though I feel like I’m about to throw up. “Openthem,” I whisper.

Silas lifts the lid of the first box, and it’s like opening a crypt.

Box 1: Childhood Files & Keepsakes

Inside are my old school photos—ones I thought I had lost years ago, pictures from elementary school, a few of which show me with crooked bangs and missing teeth. There’s a plastic bag with a single lock of dark hair, tied with a ribbon—my first haircut. I remember my grandmother saving it, tucking it away in her old jewelry box. I remember crying when I couldn’t find it anymore. There’s another bag that contains my baby teeth. My grandmother told me they went missing a few years ago.

My hands shake. Macee swears under her breath, balling up her fist.

Tucked between the photos are folders—my name scrawled across the top, but inside? Pages and pages of therapist notes, old school counselor evaluations, even one of my drawings of a house with broken windows, labeled “home” that I drew when I was in counseling around the age of six.

“Jesus Christ,” Jasper breathes.

“He’s been collecting things from when you were a kid,” Riot growls. “Who the fuck does that?”

Box 2: Recent & Secret Photos

Micah opens the following box. This one is worse.

Stacks of photos—hundreds, maybe more. I see myself at work, headphones in, hunched over my laptop. I see myself outside my sister’s house, hugging my nephew goodbye. There’s one of me laughing in a coffee shop with two of my friends from high school, sunlight catching the blue in my hair.

Some of these are recent. Some go back at least 5 years. But every single one is taken from a distance, like a hunter watching prey.

There are shots of me with my sister and my nephew out Christmas shopping, blurry from a telephoto lens—another of me and my parents, waving as I get into my car.Even some of me visiting my step mother and step sister, even with it being a rare occasion it was still caught on camera.

My hands go numb.

“Motherfucker was everywhere,” Macee hisses, voice trembling.

Box 3: The Stalker’s Shrine

This box is full of scraps, collages, and Polaroids—my face cut out, pasted over bridal magazines. “Mrs. Blake Lewis” scrawled in different pens and markers, over and over, filling the margins.

A spiral notebook, pages and pages of “plans”, lists of baby names, wedding venues, songs, menu ideas, all of it circled and starred. One page says “Sawyer forever” over and over until the pen broke.