“Well, I think that’s nice, you and Sadie,” she says after a moment. “You two used to be like peas in a pod.”

I nod, remembering Sadie’s face when she talked about her dad, the tension in her mouth like she was trying to keep her lip from quivering, even after all this time. She believes that her father is in a better place now, but that doesn’t stop her from obsessing about ghosts and spirits and what happens after we die.

I think about what she said about the letter for Ashley, that it doesn’t matter if the ghost is real or not, that Ty intended for Ashley to have it. That I should respect his wishes.

“You look lost in thought,” Mom says, startling me. “Long day?”

“The longest,” I say. Which is what every day feels like.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

That’s nice. I wish I could tell Mom about the letter situation. I can imagine telling her, the way I used to occasionally ask for her advice, and then she’d help me work out the insignificant problems I had in my life before. But my mother isn’t that Mom anymore, and I’m not that Lex. The woman in front of me now, pouring herself a second (or however many) glass of wine, is almost a stranger to me, but I do know one thing about her: she’s fragile. She’s barely hanging on. If I told her now about me seeing Ty, she’d lose her grip. She’d fall.

“Rain check, okay?” I tell her, giving her a brief hug. “I’m wiped.”

In the hallway I notice that the empty frame, the one with the missing picture of Dad and Ty, is on the floor again. I pick it up. The glass in one corner is cracked. I turn it over and inspect it, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the loop on the back or the hook on the wall. It just happens to be on the floor. Again.

I sigh. Just once I’d like to get through a day with nothing weird happening

I go back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” I ask. “Did you do something with this picture?”

She frowns. “What picture?”

I hand her the frame. “It’s the one with Ty and Dad going hunting. Did you take it out?”

She shakes her head, staring at the empty space in the frame. “I remember that day,” she murmurs. “Your father was so proud. And Tyler . . .”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. I know.

Ty never wanted to kill anything. Not a fish or a deer or a spider, even. That’s just how he was.

How is it, then, that he managed to do such damage to himself?

Mom wipes at her eyes. “No. I didn’t take it.”

And now I’ve started my mother crying again. Perfect.

“There’s another picture missing, though,” she adds. “From the stairwell.”

“What?”

“Your father’s graduation picture. I noticed it the other day when I . . .”

When she went down to sleep in Ty’s bed.

I go straight to the stairs. There are dozens of pictures on the wall here as you descend into the basement: all the awkwardly posed family photos and pictures of both sides of relatives. A picture of Dad and his two older sisters standing in front of their house with seventies hair when Dad was just a toddler. A portrait of Gram and Pop, Mom’s parents, at their wedding on the steps of a stone church. Dad with a dorky little beard, holding a wet and naked baby (okay, that’s me) in a fluffy orange towel. Grandpa at his sixtieth birthday party. Christmas card photos of my cousins. Terrible class photos. And Mom’s right; there is a picture missing, on the bottom right side of the wall. The frame’s still there but the photo is gone. It was a black-and-white professional photo of Dad wearing a suit and tie, smiling serenely like there was nothing in the world he’d wanted so much as to graduate with a BS in accounting from the University of Nebraska–Lincoln.

Sigh. Just one freaking day.

When I was a kid I had a thing for Sherlock Holmes, the way he was able to ascertain so much by using deductive reasoning and simple observation. I went through a phase where I told people that I was going to be a detective when I grew up. But now I’ve got this seemingly simple mystery in front of me and I have no idea how to go about solving it.

I head back up the stairs. Mom’s still sitting at the kitchen counter. Still drinking. Still crying.

She glances up, sniffles. “Yes,” I affirm. “The photo’s missing.”

“I thought your dad might have stopped by and taken it,” she says. “He still has a key to the house. Maybe he took the one in the hallway, too.”

That explanation makes sense, I guess. Both missing photos are of Dad. But (a) I hope Dad doesn’t feel like he can sneak into the house whenever he likes and take stuff. He could ask me, if he wanted something. I wouldn’t give him any grief about it. And (b) why would he take the photos but not the frames? Why would he take the time, mid-sneak, to carefully unfasten the frames, slip the photos out, and then return the frames to their proper places? And, finally, and maybe most importantly, (c) why would he take the photo of himself at graduation and the hunting photo and not take, say, the picture of his sisters or of Grandpa or the one where he’s holding me?

“We should change the locks,” I say to Mom.

She sets her glass down on the counter. “Because we have a photo thief on our hands?”

“Because Dad shouldn’t have the key to the house anymore. Or I can ask him to give it back, I guess. Whichever you prefer.”