“Why?”
Graham whispered, “That sounded suspicious.”
Marissa stepped onto the porch carrying a cheesecake.
“What are you doing out there?”
Henry grabbed the edge of the blanket.
“We’re out of time.”
He pulled.
The blanket dropped onto the grass.
Beneath it stood an old wooden vanity.
Cream paint.
Three little drawers.
A round mirror with a small chip near the top.
One scratch along the left corner where nine-year-old Marissa had once caught it with a metal bracelet.
I knew that vanity.
I’d bought it for her when she was six.
She used to sit in front of it singing into a hairbrush and covering herself in glitter she called makeup.
She’d make ridiculous faces at herself until we both laughed.
Years later, she carried the mirror into the garage and told Henry:
“I don’t want something in my room whose whole job is looking at me.”
