Something pulled in my chest when I read it, I won’t lie. But I shoved it right back down. Connie’s a common name. Half the women our age are named Connie or Carol or Linda.

I told myself it was nothing. I think part of me already knew I was lying, but I needed the lie to keep standing up.

Then I saw the photo.

On the nightstand, in a cheap frame, there was a picture of Dave and a woman sitting in a restaurant. And I knew that restaurant. Bella Roma. The corner booth. The same booth where he got down on his knee 29 years ago. He took her to my booth. That’s the thing that nearly put me on the floor. I didn’t cry. I just picked the frame up, slid it into my purse, locked the apartment, and drove home.

And then I did the strangest thing. I made dinner. Pork chops, the green beans he likes. I don’t even know why. I think my hands just needed something to do that wasn’t shaking. He came in at 6:30 like always. Kissed my cheek. “Smells great,” he said.

I set his plate down in front of him. I waited until he had a bite in his mouth. Then I said it.

“I found the key.”

He stopped chewing. Didn’t look up.

“Connie Baxter,” I said. “Ridgeview. 7B.”

He set his fork down real slow. For a second nobody said anything, and honestly that quiet was worse than yelling. Then he looked at me, and his eyes were already wet, which was not what a guilty man’s eyes do.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“About six hours,” I said.

He looked at the front door. Then back at me. And he said the thing that I keep hearing in my head even now. “Before you do anything, I need you to know that Connie is not someone I met.”

I just stared at him.

“She’s someone you already know,” he said. “And the reason I rented that apartment is because she asked me to keep it secret from you. Specifically from you.” He took a breath like it physically hurt him. “Because she’s your sister.”

I want to tell you I screamed or threw something. I didn’t. I just sat down in the chair across from him, because my legs decided for me.

Connie. My Connie. My little sister. The one I hadn’t spoken to in seven years. The last words I ever said to her were at our mother’s funeral, when I grabbed her arm in the church parking lot and told her she was selfish and useless and “don’t you ever call me again.” She didn’t. Not once. I never knew she’d started wearing Mom’s jasmine perfume after the funeral. That’s why the smell wouldn’t leave me alone. It wasn’t a stranger’s. It was my mother’s. It was hers.