Upstairs
Aunt Edith's bedroom is neat, floral, and entirely ordinary except for the wall above the writing desk, where she has pinned a calendar for every one of the last six years.
From each calendar, one column has been removed. Cleanly, with scissors, the full length of the page, every month, every year: the fourth column. The calendars sit otherwise untouched, Wednesday shaking hands with Friday all the way down.
In the desk drawer: six years of scissored paper columns, bundled in string, labeled in pencil: EVIDENCE.
A ladder in the hall leads up to the attic.