I looked at the crazed writings of the lunatic I once called “brother.” Scribbling on napkins, photographs of shadows he claimed were not supposed to be there, all piled onto his desk in his room where the only light that worked was his flimsy table lamp.

I shone the flashlight on my phone up onto his bulletin board, where he had connected newspaper clippings and Polaroids and sticky notes with strings wound around thumb tacks.

“LOCAL 18-YEAR-OLD GOES MISSING” one read. A nearby sticky note read: “What’s the connection???” Photos similar to the ones he had on his desk were layered beside that.

I sighed as I stepped back, rubbing my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was doing this.

I took the trash bag and started piling the junk in. I had about 10 minutes before the police would get here and start tearing apart his room, trying to find some indication as to where he had gone.

“Promise me you’ll destroy it,” he had said the day I found his collection. “If I ever go missing, promise me you‘ll get rid of it before anyone finds it.”

I remember calling him “paranoid,” among other choice words. But, yes, I did promise.

And here I was, fulfilling that promise. Maybe Colby wasn’t so crazy...

Once the desk was clear, I reached up to the bulletin board. I wanted to just tear the whole thing down. The thing that had ruined my relationship with my brother. The thing that had caused me to lose him.

Instead, I carefully pulled it off the wall, away from the cling strips, stuffed it in the trash bag, and pulled the strips cleanly off the wall, as if it had never been there.

Carefully, I dragged the bag, stretched to its limit, to my bedroom, closing his door behind me. Safely in my own domain, I shoved the bag into my closet and forced the door shut.

I flopped onto my bed, mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. I was too distraught. Too afraid. Too worried over my brother.

He was gone. The last time I saw him, he was slaving away over his work. He never even turned to look at me.

“Goodnight, Colby,” I had said from the doorway.

“Night,” he had snapped.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I had warned him.

“Eh,” he had grunted.

It hurt so much more now. Knowing that I might never see him again. Knowing that the last thing he had said to me was “eh.”

I looked over at my doorway. What would I do if he walked through that door right now? If he came home and started his nonsense all over again? If he shut me out?

If I got another chance to make things right?

I turned back to my phone as it chimed beside me on the bed.

There was one text:

COLBY REGHAN: they know you have the stuff

I stared at my screen in disbelief and texted back as quickly as I could:

ME: Colby!!! Are you okay???

Three dots popped up, indicating he was texting back. And then his message came through:

COLBY REGHAN: get out of the house! Keep mom safe! Please!

I shook my head, panic rising in my throat:

ME: Where are you?

Three dots appeared again. Then his message:

COLBY REGHAN: do what I said. I lov

Horror washed over me.

ME: Colby? Are you there???

Three dots appeared. And then they disappeared. And then they reappeared. A message came through:

COLBY REGHAN: you’re next

I dropped my phone. Adrenaline kicked in. Colby had been right. Someone WAS after him.

My gaze shifted up as the doorbell rang. I could hear my mother going toward the door.

I sprinted toward the living room, shouting her name: “MOM! DON’T OPEN-!”

But I was too late. Figures in dark clothes and tactical gear pushed through the door, rifles pointed at my mother.

“THE PICTURES!” One of them shouted at me. “WHERE ARE THEY?”

I backed away, fear rising in my chest.

“Promise me you’ll destroy it,” Colby had said.

I darted into the kitchen, too fast for the men, and shuffled through the junk drawer. By the time I made it back to my room, the men had already ransacked Colby’s desk. I slipped into my room and locked the door.

Then I grabbed the trash bag.

“This better be worth it,” I whispered as I took a lighter to Colby’s research.