keeps wagging. What’s got into you, boy? I wonder, encouraged by the change in him.
Standing, I turn to Ty, knowing that if I keep holding everything in—about my dad’s cryptic comments, about Iris, about my mom’s weird behavior—I’m going to go crazy. I’ve always heard that two heads are better than one. Wouldn’t three work best of all? Maybe if Ty, Wyatt, and I all put our heads together, we can make some sense of what’s happening—that is, if Wyatt ever forgives me.
I motion toward the door. “There’s something you should know. Come on. I’ll show you.”
Cookie needs to go out, so Ty carries him down the steps to the yard. His legs are wobbly when Ty lowers him to the ground, but his tail keeps wagging. A few minutes later he follows us to the workshop, making slow but steady progress.
“He acts like he’s feeling a little better,” says Ty, as Cookie plops down on the floor.
I lay the violin case next to the chest containing my mother’s things. “I know. He had a burst of energy, or something. It’s weird.”
I turn my attention to the chest and sit down in front of it, next to Ty.
When the music box is out and open between us, with the note from Jake spread across it, I tell Ty about the conversation I overheard between my parents on the morning of my birthday. I tell him about Dad’s strange words to me after the accident, too. And I relay Mom’s behavior since Dad’s death—how she’s locked herself in here, and how I watched her from the window going through this chest. I describe the sketches tucked away in tubes on the upper shelf of the storage closet. I decide not to tell him about the strange effect the music box song had on me. I’ve known Wyatt forever, and he didn’t believe me, so why would Ty? I don’t want him to think I’m psycho.
He pulls a strand of hair from the brush and wraps it around his finger, looking down at his hands, silent.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
Ty looks up. “What if they lived there before you were born?”
“In Winterhaven?” I shake my head. “They’ve always lived in Colorado.”
“That could’ve been the secret they were going to tell you. That they had a different life than they’ve led you to believe. A life they left.”
“I don’t know why they’d lie about that.”
He lays down the brush, picks up a blue T-shirt, and unfolds it. It’s one I haven’t seen before. “You said these clothes were your mom’s?” He turns the shirt around so that I can see the front. It reads CLASS OF ’95. “I’m thinking they could’ve belonged to someone else,” says Ty.
I stare at the shirt, surprised, and my hand trembles as I scratch Cookie’s head. “Who?”
“I don’t know—a friend or maybe your mom had a younger sister. Or—”
“Mom and Dad would’ve told me if I had relatives,” I interrupt, a note of defense in my voice. “I would’ve met them. And why would Mom have that person’s things? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe she died.”
“Died?” I stand abruptly, fighting down a rising sense of unease. “Why would you say that?”
Ty tenses. “Don’t get upset.” He returns the shirt to the chest. “I’m just tossing out ideas.”
“I’m not upset.” But I hear the strain in my voice.
He picks up the brush again. “Your mom . . . she looks quite a bit older than my parents.”
“She and Dad had me late in life. What are you trying to say?”
“The secret . . .” Ty exhales and gestures toward the chest. “All this. The sketch you found of you and your parents on that dock when you were a baby . . . I’m just trying to come up with an explanation.”
“And you think you have?”
“Your dad said something about protecting you. What if your parents did live in Winterhaven and they left because they had to? What if they didn’t tell you because it might put you at risk if you knew?”
“What, like they were in the witness-protection program or something?” A sound of disbelief slips past my lips. “That’s insane.”
“Not really,” he says, as if what he’s suggesting happens all the time. “It’s possible.”
I go still as I recall Mack’s earlier visit and what he said about Ty. Am I doing the right thing trusting him with this?
Ty must see something in my expression. “Forget what I said. It was just a theory,” he says. “You’re right—it’s