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It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sarah and the kids pulled into the driveway of their two-story stucco house in Ottawa. Sarah was mildly surprised to find the house standing just as she’d left it, curtained windows like half-opened eyes watching the street. The neighborhood, a network of curvy streets splattered with large oaks and recently planted saplings, was coveted for its good schools and large backyards and equally despised for its stereotypical version of suburbia.

The arrival home felt chaotic: the kids ran around the house touching everything in sight while Sarah set about unpacking the car. Before long, sleeping bags, discarded camp pots, and dirty clothes created an obstacle course in the entrance floor. Sarah wandered through the rooms, peering into each one as if playing a one-sided game of hide-and-seek. She had expected to find only emptiness and the pang of loss, but the house surprised her. Matthew had so often been at the office or traveling, his absence was familiar at home.

“You hungry?” Izzy asked as she strode through the front door with a load of groceries and a telltale bag from the liquor store.

“Not especially, but the kids should eat.” Sarah had driven the three hours straight through, with only a short pee break at the side of the road. The kids had had snacks in the car, but neither Sarah nor Izzy had eaten since breakfast.

“Chinese?” the sisters said in unison. A family tradition—as teens, Sarah and Izzy ordered Chinese food whenever their parents were out for the evening. Over steaming cartons of lemon chicken and deep-fried wontons dunked in Day-Glo sweet-and-sour sauce, they caught up on each other’s lives: school, boys, and best friends being the most common topics. The greasy food loosened their tongues as they supported each other through teenage angst or the crush of the day.

“I’ll call.” Izzy pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “Moo shu or ribs?” she asked. Sarah offered an arched eyebrow, a wordless response crafted in thirty-five years of sisterhood.

“Moo shu it is,” Izzy said. “Charlie! Bella! It’s moo shu time. Who can say that fast five times?”

“Moo shu, moo shu, moo shu ...,” the kids squealed as they came barreling into the kitchen.

For just a second, everything felt normal.

When the food arrived, the smell of citrus and stale oil brought on a nostalgia for both sisters. Over dinner, they regaled the kids with stories of lost boyfriends, a colossal fight over LEGOs that led to their mother finding pieces in the houseplants, and a strange encounter with a three-legged neighborhood cat that left them all breathless with laughter.

“Tell more,” Charlie said when storytelling stamina waned.

“No more tonight. It’s bedtime for you two.”

“Ahhhhh.” The kids echoed each other as they headed up the stairs, but the lack of any firm protest from either made it clear they were indeed tired.

Charlie was already half-asleep by the time Sarah smoothed down his ruffled curls and kissed his head. “Good night, sweetheart,” she whispered.

“Mom,” Bella said as Sarah was gathering discarded clothes off the floor of her room. “Can you tuck me in?”

It seemed like years since Bella had asked to be tucked into bed, and the unexpected request settled into Sarah the way good chocolate melted on the tongue. Her daughter was so much, and yet nothing, like her. They had the same hair color and similar builds, even matching facial expressions, yet Bella’s character—shoot first and clean up the mess later—was like ancient ruins carved into her genes, and Sarah lacked the key to her language.

“Sure, kiddo.” Sarah sat on the side of the bed and held a tired smile on her face. “How are you doing? I know this has been difficult.”

“I’m fine.”

“Ya? Okay, well, just so you know, it’s okay not to be fine.” Bella looked away from her mother toward the wall.

“All right, then. All done,” Sarah said as she finished tucking the blanket against Bella’s sides the way she did when Bella was little. Sarah stood to leave. “Good night, honey. Love you.”

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” Bella said, her head downcast and voice just above a whisper.

The kettle was wailing when Sarah returned to the kitchen after putting the kids to bed. Izzy, in a furor of activity, had put away the leftovers and was wiping down the kitchen table. “Tea?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, Izzy pulled down two mugs and dropped in tea bags. The scent of peppermint and jasmine filled the kitchen.

Sarah felt like she was moving through a dense fog, dragging herself across unknown terrain but desperate to move forward. She cradled the secret Bella had just told her, unsure whether to bury it or release it into the world. She knew Bella was struggling with Matthew’s absence, but the child carried so much more.

While Sarah had unnecessarily resmoothed the blanket across the bed, Bella told her mother: the night Matthew disappeared, she’d left the tent after Sarah was asleep and found Matthew by the canoe. She’d jumped out at him as a joke and he’d gotten angry with her because he fell down and pretended to be asleep. The poor girl believed that’s why Matthew had gone away. Sarah reassured Bella that it had nothing to do with his disappearance. He would never leave his family just because he lost his temper, she’d said to Bella. But was that really true?

There had been anger in their marriage for some time now. Though Sarah couldn’t pinpoint a moment or a date, things hadn’t been the same between them since Charlie was born. While she didn’t believe for a minute that he’d walked away from his family into the Ontario wilderness, Sarah did wonder if his anger was driving him away from the family, toward a different life, a different woman.

Sarah rose. She kissed Bella on the head, lingering to take in the earthy little-girl smell of her beneath the sweet coconut of her shampoo.

“I tried to tell you, Mom,” Bella said in a sleepy whisper.

“What did you try to tell me, honey?”

“About Daddy.” Bella’s voice was a gentle slur, her mind already chasing dreams.

Sarah knew she should tell the police about Bella’s story, but really, what did it change? Matthew was still gone. She’d already told them their marriage was far from perfect. Bella’s encounter with Matthew wouldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. He had been with them the night before he disappeared. Sharing Bella’s secret with the police would only subject the girl to more scrutiny and make her wonder if she was the cause of her daddy’s disappearance. No child deserved that.

As she made her way downstairs, Sarah cast her mind back to that night. She remembered melting into the sleeping bag as exhaustion had taken over. She closed her eyes. Did she feel her daughter’s hand as she crawled out of the tent or hear the sound of her voice? Nothing came. She stopped halfway down the stairs, willed herself to wander through memories. Images flitted like a slideshow in fast forward: Matthew by the fire, the funky smell in the tent, the bite of cold as she stripped off her outerwear before crawling into the sleeping bag. Did she sense that Bella had left the tent? What kind of mother sleeps through that? She felt her eyes pinch together as she searched desperately. The images scrolled mercilessly, making it hard to catch details, like a child’s spinning top. Suddenly, everything stopped, and in her mind’s eye, Sarah saw only one image: the wendigo she’d googled on the first night in the hotel, its teeth dripping blood and claws reaching out greedily.

As she reached the kitchen, Sarah sunk under the weight of it all, sliding to the floor, grasping the mug Izzy handed her. Izzy joined her, their backs against the cupboards, legs splayed out in front of them. Twilight clung to the wall across from them. They sat without speaking, sipping tea, but Sarah knew from experience, Izzy was holding something back: one finger thrummed the mug in her hand, jangling the plastic bangles on her wrist, while the other hand carefully smoothed invisible wrinkles on her T-shirt. Sarah decided, in that instant, she would carry the burden of Bella’s secret alone.

“What?” Sarah asked Izzy, more sharply than she liked.

“Nothing. It can wait.”

“Spill it. You’re practically vibrating, so you might as well tell me.”

“It’s just, I think you’ll want to get some papers organized sooner rather than later.”

“What would I possibly need with papers?”

“Look, we don’t know what’s happened to Matthew. You say he’s coming back. The police think he drowned. One thing is clear, he’s not here now. And there is life to sort out in his absence.”

For most of her adult life, Sarah had paid little attention to the formal documentation of living. Financial statements, registration certificates, insurance papers—she had willingly let them fall to Matthew. Izzy, however, ran her own business and was driven to build a financial portfolio from the time she was fifteen. She saw independence in understanding money.

“Fine,” Sarah said. “What do I need to know?”

“Well, how about we start with where exactly all the documents are? Mortgage papers, bank statements? Any of those ringing a bell?”

“They must be in the study somewhere. There’s a couple of filing cabinets in there.”

Sarah flicked her hand in the direction of the small room just off the kitchen. It had been an uninsulated sunroom when they first moved into the house, but they had renovated it themselves until it grew into a cozy little nook with large windows and space to work. Matthew had set himself up in there with a battered secondhand desk and overflowing filing cabinets. Sarah rarely visited. Though it resided in her house, it was foreign territory.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Izzy strode into the room, laying waste to the crafted balance.

Organized mayhem. That was really the only way to describe the jumble of papers and files in Matthew’s study. Izzy felt a twinge of despair when she pulled out the first drawer; there were files but no discernible filing system. A manual for a blender was sandwiched between the kids’ birth certificates and a file filled with take-out menus. Izzy plunged her hand in.

An hour later, when Sarah stepped back into the room with more tea and a box of animal crackers, Izzy stood in the middle of the room with an empty drawer and three neat piles on the desk in front of her.

“Ooh, where did you find those?” Izzy grabbed for a cookie and dunked an elephant into her tea.

“You’d be surprised what’s still around these days. And what’s coming back,” Sarah said.

“I know. I heard they were remaking Risky Business . Or was it Top Gun . Either way, Tom Cruise was still gonna be in it.”

“Gotta say. I think he can pull it off,” Sarah said, mimicking the iconic dance from the original movie. They both laughed at the idea of a fifty-something-year-old heartthrob gyrating in his underwear.

“Wish my marriage would come back,” Sarah said on dying laughter. She leafed through the piles of paper, clearly uninterested in the contents.

“Not the sitcom you imagined life to be, then?” Izzy said.

“Not even close.”

Izzy was ashamed by the sense of satisfaction she felt. She’d questioned Sarah’s marriage from the very beginning and always felt Matthew was responsible for the distance that had grown between her and Sarah.

“I think he was planning on leaving me, Iz.”

Izzy’s satisfaction dissolved into Sarah’s matter-of-fact words. She went toward Sarah, who took an instinctive step back.

“Sarah, I—”

“Look, before you lecture me, or fling out save-the-day answers, I’ll admit it. I have no real proof. It’s just a ... I don’t know ... a feeling. It’s crazy. I know it’s crazy. I couldn’t even tell the police.”

Izzy let her arms drop to her sides. “Why not? Wouldn’t that make a difference in their investigation?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t tell them. How can I admit that my marriage was falling apart? And what am I supposed to tell them anyway? Ya, we hadn’t been talking for months. Marriages go through that, don’t they? Maybe his mind had started to wander. Not exactly a smoking gun of marital betrayal. And then he suggested the canoe trip. Out of the blue. He wanted to go to Nagadon Lake.” Sarah’s voice rose as she spoke, like a roller coaster jugging up the first incline. “Nagadon was our special place. Matthew would never have suggested it if he was planning on leaving me. Would he?”

Izzy was not about to attempt an answer to that question.

“Sarah, you need to let the investigators know.”

“I don’t need to do anything. Right now, all I need to do is make things as normal as possible for the kids. And hinting that their father was about to break up the family isn’t going to do that.” Sarah paced as she spoke, skirting the piles on the ground.

“You have to tell them, Sarah. Remember what the officers kept telling you, every little thing matters. I’m sure they’ll understand. It won’t be the first time they’ve heard a story like yours.”

“A story like mine? What do you mean?” Sarah stopped her pacing and targeted Izzy with a dark stare. Izzy stood firm under her sister’s gaze, refusing to back down.

“I didn’t mean anything by—”

“Of course you didn’t. You never do.”

Izzy felt the sarcastic slap. She drew her shoulders back, raised her chin, and pushed into the blast. “Sarah, what do you really think happened to Matthew?”

Sarah stared straight ahead. In the muted light, her sister’s face reminded Izzy of a porcelain doll—pale with a flush of scarlet at her cheeks. Izzy knew that look. There was something more there, sitting on the cusp of Sarah’s lips. She waited.

“Sarah?” Izzy moved into Sarah’s sight line, trying to read the unsaid in her eyes.

“I need to check on the kids.” Sarah jumped up and strode out of the room, leaving Izzy to flail in a void.

When Sarah returned to the study, she surveyed the brown manila folders lining the floor. Izzy had combed through every cabinet, her fingers like elegant pale spiders pulling on strands of their lives. Sarah caught muttered words that sounded important but held little meaning for her: deed , mortgage , insurance . They told a story of a life, but one from which Sarah was disconnected.

“So, these are the essentials,” Izzy said, referring to squat towers of paper. “Sorting through these will keep a roof over your heads and the lights on.”

Sarah bent over and picked up a file that had bank statements scrawled on the inner lip. “I know it looks like a lot, Sarah, but it’s just making sure you have the essentials. With Matthew gone, you’ll need to take care of the mortgage payments, make sure the heat stays on, the phone bill gets—”

“Until he comes back,” Sarah said flatly.

“Sorry?”

“You mean I need to do these things until Matthew comes back.”

“Sarah.”

“Not you, too, Izzy.”

“Sarah, I—”

“Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.” Sarah stood and paced, stepping on files. “The police think they know what happened, but they have no idea, so they’re taking the easy way out. They’re saying he’s dead or drowned because they need an easy answer. And I get it. I don’t blame them. They need to dot the i’s or close the file or whatever the hell they call it.” Sarah’s voice remained quiet, but the edges were vicious and cutting. “But I won’t take it from you, Izzy. It can’t be in this house. Or around my kids. And all this shit—” Sarah kicked at a pile. The fluttering pages sent a shudder of satisfaction along her spine. She drew back for another kick. Again and again, the pages exploded into corners, mingling and merging into a paper blizzard.

Sarah was dimly aware of Izzy’s voice begging her to stop. Okay, okay, she thought she heard, but it was swamped by the sound of crumpling paper under her feet and the sharp taps of paper edges on harder surfaces about the room.

Spent, Sarah dropped into the chair and looked at Izzy, who stood wide eyed and open mouthed in the black-on-white sea. “Are you done? Feel better?” Izzy said.

“Yes, yes I do.” Sarah lifted a piece of paper off her mug and took a slug of cold tea.

“I’m going to bed,” Izzy said, crumpling pages underfoot as she walked out of the room.

Sarah sat in the quiet for a while; the only sound was a loose piece of paper flapping against a floor vent. When she squatted down to gather the pages, a flash of crimson caught her eye from beneath the desk. Sarah crawled across the floor, dug a hand into a heap of papers, and pulled out a small stack of bank statements. While Sarah was content for Matthew to manage their family’s money, she knew just enough to recognize that they did not hold any accounts or investments in that bank.

She sat cross legged on the floor and leafed through the pages; each one showed the same thing: two deposits a month and not a single withdrawal. The last deposit was more than a month ago, bringing the account balance up to a little over $60,000. She flipped down to the last page, dated five years prior. Further rustling in the tangle of papers led to a manila folder labeled CIBC Account .

For five years, Matthew had been squirreling money away every single month. When she’d suggested a family vacation or landscaping for the backyard, he’d told her they couldn’t possibly afford it. And she believed him. What reason was there for him to lie?

Sarah tucked the pages back in and was about to close the file when something stopped her. Neatly printed at the top of the page: G.E. Trust . She rubbed her eyes. Obviously, she had misread. She scanned the paper edge to edge, taking in the columns and headers. Though they rarely spoke of financial matters, Matthew kept her aware of any investments involving her or the kids. He’d never mentioned a trust. Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. Sure enough. Rather than Matthew’s name and address, the account was in the name of the G.E. Trust and the address was a PO box.

The sky was lightening as Sarah placed the last file onto its pile. It had taken all night to comb through every piece of paper. She found no other files of interest, no other references to a trust or other peculiar investments.

A faint nausea from earlier in the evening had grown into an uncomfortable churn. Who was the recipient of the trust, and what was their relationship to Matthew? Speculation swallowed Sarah’s questions, each theory more outlandish and insubstantial than the last: Matthew was hiding money for someone, Matthew was dodging taxes, Matthew had illegal income. But the loudest question, the one that wouldn’t be silenced: Why did Matthew need forgiveness? As hard as her mind tried to work its way down other paths, she could not step off the one that carved its way into the heart of her marriage. Betrayal. Matthew was seeing another woman. It was a gut punch that doubled Sarah over as saliva and bile flooded her mouth. She fought against the will of her body and lurched to the study window, throwing it open to the night. She gulped at the cold air in long, deep breaths that she held against her heart until the creature that clawed at her belly was wrestled back into the darkness.

Sarah’s head throbbed. She rummaged through the desk in search of aspirin. She pulled out drawer after drawer as frustration reverberated through her body until it exploded into a yank on the final drawer. A plastic catch snapped. The drawer bounced off its tracks and landed with a heavy thud on the hardwood while Sarah’s hand still held the handle. The contents skittered across the floor, knocking against the piles of paper as if they were bumpers in a pinball machine. Sarah backed away from the desk. A pen cap drove into the soft flesh at the arch of her foot. “Fuck!”

She let go of the drawer’s handle and waited for the pain to subside. When it had cooled to a simmer, she squatted down and grasped each side of the drawer. Her fingers brushed the bottom. Instead of the rough scratch of particleboard she had expected, she felt the smooth slide of paper.

The remaining drawer contents scattered across the floor as Sarah turned it over to get a better look. She saw a plain brown envelope taped to the bottom. The cliché made her laugh.

That’s when Izzy found her: sitting on the floor, deep circles under her eyes as hysteria-tinged laughter seeped out.

“Sarah? What happened? I heard you yell.”

Sarah explained her night’s findings. “It doesn’t make sense, Izzy. Why would Matthew do this?”

“Well, he’s not exactly hiding it. The bank statements aren’t stashed behind the wall. And let’s face it, you never pay attention to these things. Maybe it’s just part of a tax structure. Matthew’s a contractor, isn’t he?”

“Yes. But sixty grand? We could have used that money. The roof needs reshingling, and we’ve been talking about finding a bigger place for years. He said we didn’t have enough for a down payment yet. Even I know sixty thousand would have covered it. And this was certainly hidden.” Sarah held up the envelope, holding it out to Izzy like an accusation.

“Well, let’s open it up and see what we’ve got.”

The sisters dug spots on the floor among piles of paper, the brown envelope between them. Izzy picked it up and looked to Sarah for approval. Sarah nodded. Izzy’s finger slipped into a small opening under the folded edge and ripped. She tipped the envelope over and gently shook it. A small object slid into her open left palm. Sarah inched closer, scooting across the floor like a toddler. In the crux of Izzy’s hand was a small bronze-colored key.

“It looks like a padlock key,” Izzy said, bringing her nose closer. “No markings, though.”

“What the hell is it for?”