It starts with a strangled cry from Nicholas’s study two days later. There’s a muffled clatter, and then my older brother hollers my name.
“Kiara! Jesus Christ, I—Kiara! Get in here!”
“Coming!” I yell back, pounding up the stairs in a green sheath dress and pumps. So not dressed to sprint around the building. Early morning spring sunshine spears through the windows, and I leap over an abandoned vacuum cleaner on my route. “What is it?”
Nicholas gapes at me, wild-eyed, as I burst into his study. His carefully styled dark hair, still damp from the shower, looks like he just grabbed two fistfuls and yanked. “Kiara. Jesus. Look.”
There’s a sheaf of papers on his desk, tied with a red ribbon and marked with a yellow post-it. A slender branch of some kind is tucked beneath the ribbon, dusty
