Page 128 of Never Forget
The table was covered in documents. Insurance papers. Contractor estimates. Floor plans.
We'd decided to rebuild.
My parents' house. The house Jack had raised me in. The house where Rosie took her first steps. It had burned to the ground because a man couldn't stand that I came back.
But Bryce was in custody now. And we were going to bring it back.
I ran my fingers over the floor plans. The kitchen would be bigger this time. More counter space. A window over the sink so I could watch Rosie play in the backyard while I cooked. Sam's things would be there too. His guitar in the corner. His vinyl collection on the shelf. His boots by the door.
Our house. Our family.
Rosie woke up around 9:00 a.m. Stumbled into the kitchen with Biscuit tucked under her arm. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were still heavy with sleep.
"Morning, sweetheart."
"Morning."
I made her pancakes. We ate together at the cluttered table, pushing insurance documents aside to make room for plates.
After breakfast, Rosie found some paper and crayons. Announced she was going to draw "concepts" for the new house.
"Concepts?" I asked, amused.
"Like the drawings you showed me. But mine."
Rosie drew her room—purple walls, a big window, fairy lights around the ceiling. She drew the backyard—sunflowers andtomatoes. A swing set. She drew the front porch—two rocking chairs, a welcome mat, a wreath on the door.
"This one is for Sam's guitar," Rosie said, pointing to a corner of the living room. "And this is where we put the Christmas tree."
My heart swelled.
"It's perfect, sweetheart."
I watched her work. The way her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth when she concentrated—holding the crayon like it was a tool she was learning to use, tilting her head at the paper, assessing, the same way Jack used to do at the kitchen table when he was checking over my homework.
Jack was everywhere in her.
I missed him the way I always missed him.
I remembered when Jack found out what Bryce had done. He didn't yell. He didn't make a scene at school. He drove straight to the Montgomery house and rang the bell. They turned him away at the door. Threatened to call the police. Said their son would never do something like that.
Jack came home that night and sat beside me on my bed. Twenty-one years old, raising a teenage sister. He didn't say anything for a long time except "I'm sorry I couldn't fix it."
But he stayed. He always stayed.
I looked at Rosie. At the floor plans on the table. At the life we were building.
Sam would be home in the morning.
I hoped so. I hoped every time. I hoped he'd always come home.
I knew better than to think hope was enough. Firefighters ran into burning buildings for strangers. That was the job. That was how my brother had died.
But that afternoon, watching Rosie draw a house that wasn't built yet, hope was all I had.
That night, Megan called.
I glanced at the clock. Almost 8:00 p.m. Sam should be settling in for the night at the station.
