Raphael
Walking up the staircase was strangely nostalgic. The fourth and seventh stairs still creaked and groaned under my weight, reminding me of how Gabe and I used to avoid those steps whenever we wanted to sneak outside without Mom knowing.
But she always knew. She had that Italian mother spidey-sense that always landed Gabe and I in trouble. As I walked down the hall, I saw the door to Gabe’s old room was open, and I realized that must be where Beth slept. It no longer resembled the cluttered teenage-boy pig-pen I had grown up next to. Instead, the full-sized bed had been covered with a soft, feminine lilac quilt, and the sport-themed curtains had been replaced by white lace.
She followed me up the stairs and offered me a key, which dangled from a keychain shaped like Italy.
“Why
