We move everything to the table in the living room, and after more than a day and a few hours, the table no longer looks like a table.
Papers cover almost the entire surface. Some are lined up by date, others separated by origin, and there's a third pile made only of documents we still haven't managed to fit anywhere. Photographs sit pinned under empty glasses so they won't slide. Photos I've looked at so many times that I'm starting to recognize the stains on each one.
Rhayne sits across from me with her hair tucked behind one ear and an expression that closes a little more with every page.
We tried chronology first.
Then names.
Then document origin, handwriting patterns, cross-references between Arthur and my father, orphanage dates, and any note that could have been produced before or after Alden disappeared.
Nothing.
Or worse.
Everything leads somewhere, and none of those places ends in an answer.
"Again," Rhayne says.
She drags one of the sheets to the center.
