The Weight of a Secret

The air in Aunt Carol’s house had always felt a little thick, like a blanket pulled too tight. Before Jake, it had been a comforting weight, a promise of permanence I’d never known. Now, after his death, it felt suffocating, heavy with unspoken things. Aunt Carol, usually so put-together, so *solid*, was starting to fray at the edges, and I, lost in my own fog of grief and suspicion, was starting to notice.

It started subtly. A forgotten appointment, a flustered response when I asked about Jake’s old phone, the one the police had taken but I desperately wanted back. She’d wave it away, her smile a little too bright, her eyes darting just past my shoulder. “Oh, Lyla, darling, don’t worry about that. The police have it. It’s all part of the investigation.” Her words were meant to soothe, to dismiss, but they only pricked at my unease.

“But what if there’s something on it, Aunt Carol? Something the police missed? Something that could tell us what really happened?” I’d pressed, my voice thin. We’d been poring over Jake’s social media, trying to find any stray comment, any hint of trouble, but it was like looking at a polished surface with no depth.