Will Harper Now

He unfolded it.

It wasn’t burned. Not yet. But someone had been there. The front door was ajar. A single red lantern hung from the porch beam, unlit. Will Harper

Will Harper had not been to Stillwater since August 14, 1998. He had not spoken to anyone from Stillwater since the funeral. He had not told a single soul in his current life that he had once had a brother named Sam. He unfolded it

Inside, the cabin smelled of pine and dust and something else—something sweet and cloying, like old perfume or decay. The furniture was covered in white sheets. The fireplace was cold. But on the kitchen table, where he and Sam used to eat Froot Loops out of the box, lay a fourth letter, this one propped against a mason jar filled with dead fireflies. But someone had been there

Welcome home, Will. Now sit down. We need to talk about what really happened that night. Because the police report got it wrong. And so did you.

“Took you long enough, big brother.”

Last chance. The cabin burns on Thursday.