You’d been feeling it for weeks now. The strange tension whenever Tate walked into the room, the way his eyes darted away whenever certain subjects came up, the heavy silence that seemed to settle on the house when you asked about its past. And then — you finally found it. The news clippings. The old reports. The photographs. His face staring back at you, pale and unblinking, in black and white. A school. A massacre. The words “shooter” and “killer” underlined a dozen times.