EXTRAORDINARY 6-YEAR-OLD VIOLINIST IRIS MARSHALL.
Marshall, not Winston. Disappointment swells in my chest, but curiosity makes me move the mouse over the link and click.
A still image of Iris—my Iris—standing on a stage backed by a blue velvet curtain appears. Her violin is poised beneath her chin, the bow touching the strings, her face the definition of concentration. My pulse rushes to catch up with my stampeding thoughts as I start the video and Iris begins to play. And when the performance ends, I can hardly sit still.
Iris is bursting with excitement, too. That was me, she says.
I stare at the screen. But our last name isn’t Marshall, it’s Winston.
It wasn’t then.
The sound of water running in the bathroom downstairs drifts up to me. I could feel Mom’s fear when she insisted I stay away from Ty. What does he know about her past that she doesn’t want me to find out?
Determined to get some answers, I type “Adam Marshall” into the computer. The links containing that name fill two screens. The mouse shakes as I position it over the first link and click. A photograph of a sprawling campus of one-story buildings in a landscaped setting appears. The sign at the entrance reads CELL RESEARCH TECHNOLOGY. A scan of the text beneath the picture explains that the place is some sort of lab in Boston—a bio-tech firm. Adam Marshall is listed as a lead research scientist, on staff from 1986 until 1994.
Iris shudders. There were animals in cages, and a man. The animals didn’t like him.
An uneasy feeling drifts over me, light as a cobweb, tangling me in its delicate snare. What man, Iris?
I can’t remember his name. . . . He scared me.
Sitting straighter, I look for photographs of the scientists and staff, hoping Iris will be able to identify the man she mentioned, but there aren’t any pictures. Closing out the site, I open the next link to an article in a scientific journal written in 1987 by Adam Marshall, Ph.D. When I catch sight of a small picture of the author to the right of the text, a cold fist squeezes my throat. Thick, dark hair without a speck of gray. Pale skin, unlined. No beard. Only the dark brown eyes are the same. They’re the gentle, curious eyes that belonged to the father I loved and trusted.
I shift to the text:
Studies involving specialized DNA technology . . . in my attempts to produce multiple exact genetic duplicates of endangered species . . . the benefits of taking the next step would need to be weighed against possible moral and ethical consequences. . . .
I start again at the beginning, trying to comprehend the meaning of what I’m reading. It seems impossible that Dad headed up a team of scientists at that Boston lab before I was born. That he oversaw a project to try to save animals from extinction by reproducing them genetically. But as I study the picture again, I know without a doubt it’s Dad. The same man who couldn’t stand to pull a thorn out of Cookie’s paw because he was afraid of hurting him.
Exiting the website and closing my laptop, I scoot off the bed and look for my bag but can’t find it. Deciding I must’ve left it by the front door, I go downstairs and see it tucked into the corner of the couch. I grab it and quickly peek in on Mom. She’s completely knocked out.
I take my raincoat from the closet by the door, put it on, and slip outside, pulling the hood over my head. The storm has eased, but raindrops still plop onto the slick fabric of my coat, and cool night air chills my cheeks as I let myself into Mom’s Blazer. The door clicks shut.
Without turning on the overhead light, I dig inside my bag for my keys, dumping the contents onto the seat, riffling through gum wrappers, receipts, pens, a pad of paper, my wallet. The keys aren’t there. And Dad’s van keys are on the same ring.
I bang my palms against the steering wheel. Mom must have them. She knew I wouldn’t stay away from Ty.
I go back inside and look through her purse, but don’t find my set or hers, either. In spite of the fact that she’s sleeping only inches away, I check her jacket pockets and peek inside her nightstand drawers. Finally, I search the kitchen. But the keys are nowhere to be found.
I’m so mad at Mom, it’s hard not to slam the door as I leave the cabin and take off on foot down the road toward Wyatt and Addie’s. With any luck, Addie will be asleep; she’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of person.
The fresh scents of damp earth and rinsed air swirl up as I walk. Silky meadow grass swishes as the breeze combs through it, and my boots make a soft, measured thump as I make my way up the road. I’d normally be comforted by the familiar smells and noises, but not tonight. I half expect an invisible hand to lunge out of the shadows and grab me, yanking me down to some cold, dark place. Iris, I’m afraid. Why do you think Dad and Mom changed their last name?
The same reason they ran away and came here.
Yes, I say. And I’m starting to think that had something to do with you. But what?
I sense her mulling over the question as I round the bend, breathing a sigh of relief when Wyatt’s house appears ahead. All of the windows are dark except the one in his bedroom. Trotting the rest of the way, I jump up to tap the pane, hearing the chatter of a voice on his television inside. “Wyatt, it’s me.” I wait, and a few seconds later, the blinds raise and his face appears. “Come outside.”
He lowers the blinds, and I walk around to the front of the house. As I’m climbing the stairs, Wyatt steps onto the porch, propping the screen door open with his shoulder. Addie’s orange cat, Big Betty, meows as she creeps out between his bare feet. She comes toward me, weaves around my ankles, her coat as soft as fog.
“You cut your hair,” I say.
Lamplight from the living room casts a glow around Wyatt’s bare shoulders. He looks different somehow. Older. Maybe because he isn’t wearing his hat. Or maybe it’s his expression—the way he’s looking at me. Wyatt can grow sideburns. I never noticed before. My pulse kicks up and my focus lowers as if drawn by gravity. I’ve seen Wyatt’s skinny white chest too many times to count. We spent almost every day of last summer and the summers before that swimming in the pond or splashing around in the creek. But tonight his chest doesn’t seem skinny as the shadows flicker across his skin. I’m suddenly feeling insanely awkward yet drawn to Wyatt at the same time, with him standing half-naked only a couple of feet away. But now’s not the time to be thinking such thoughts.
He pushes the screen door wider. “You want to come in?”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“What’s up?”
“Where do you want me to start?” I pause, struggling to find the right words. “I wish everything could be like it was before Dad died. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Wyatt steps closer, easing the screen door shut behind him. “What’s wrong, Lil?”
“I need to go to Silver Lake, but Mom hid all the keys. Will you take me?”
“Why’d she hide the keys?”
“She doesn’t want me to see Ty.”
Wyatt scowls, and after a drawn-out silence, he asks, “Is that why you want to go to town? To see him?”
“Yes, but not for the reason you think. He knows about Mom and Dad’s past and what really happened to Iris. I’m sure of it.”
“I thought your sister died of leukemia.”
“That’s what Mom said.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
Wyatt exhales loudly. “I’m sorry, Lil, but I’m on your mom’s side. Why would you trust what Collier says over her? I mean, the guy threatened your dad. He’s up to something.”
“Mom’s lying, and I think he knows why. I’ve tried calling and texting him, but he won’t answer.”
“Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“He’s leaving in the morning.” I step closer. “Please, Wyatt? I’ve got to talk to him before he goes, or I may never figure this out.”
Scrubbing his hand through his hair, he says, “Come on, Lil. Don’t do this to me. Let me take you
home. I’ll get my keys.”
As he’s turning toward the door, I place my hand on his arm to stop him. “If you think I want to see Ty for any other reason, you’re totally wrong.”
I wait for him to give in and say he’ll take me, but Wyatt doesn’t budge.
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you. I’m sorry, Wyatt.” I turn and take the steps down into the yard.
“Wait up,” Wyatt calls after me. “I said I’d drive you home.”
“That’s okay,” I say in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m not going home.”
“You’re walking into town? In the dark? That’s crazy! It’ll take over two hours.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, then take off at a jog.
I slow my pace the second I’m out of sight of Wyatt’s house. An owl hoots from a nearby tree. A coyote howls in the distance and a second one answers the call. Frogs croak in the murky rain water in a gulley at the side of the road.
I press on for at least ten minutes before deciding Wyatt was right about walking to Silver Lake being insane.
Stopping in the middle of the road, I lean my head back and scream as loud as I can, hoping it’ll make me feel better. It doesn’t.
I spin on my heel and start toward home, crunching gravel beneath my boots. But, I’ve only taken a few steps when I hear the rumble of a motor moving closer, then the faint sound of music. Headlights glimmer in the trees beyond the bend, and then I recognize the old Kings of Leon song that’s playing. They used to be Wyatt’s favorite band before they “sold out and went commercial,” as he always says.
I move to the side of the road and wait. When Wyatt reaches me, he pulls to a stop and lowers the volume. “Okay, you win,” he calls out the window. “I’ll take you to town.”
Jogging around to the passenger door, I get in. Wyatt’s wearing his usual hat now, yet in so many ways he still doesn’t seem like the same guy I knew a month ago. Or even last week.
“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” he says, clearly put out with me.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I cross my arms and settle in.
“Coyotes prowl after dark; you know that. There’ve been, like, thirty incidents of people getting attacked.”
“Thirty people have been attacked this year?” I say, sending him a startled glance.
Watching the road, he says through gritted teeth, “No, not this year. Period.”
“In the entire history of the world?” I smother a laugh. “Gee, that’s enough to scare the crap out of me.”
“That’s only reported attacks,” he says, sounding defensive.
I hide my smile. The cab of the truck smells like corn chips and dirty gym socks. Crushed fast-food wrappers litter the space on the floorboard around my feet. I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m happy to be sitting in the familiar mess alongside Wyatt, but I am.
“This better be really important,” he mutters.
“It is. Thanks for caring whether or not I’m eaten by a coyote.” On impulse, I reach across the seat for his hand.
Wyatt tenses and I pull my hand back, realizing my mistake. He’s still not over catching me with Ty. Eager to fill the silence, I tell him about everything I’ve learned since the last time we talked.
His eyes widen. “And you think Collier knows something about all this?”
“He must. I mean, there’s the confrontation he had with Dad, and then his argument with Mom today. Not to mention how desperate she seems to keep us apart. And the theories about Mom and Dad’s past he came up with when we were looking at the stuff in the chest . . . it almost seemed like he was trying to lead me toward something he already knew.”
Wyatt squints at the dark road with his lips pursed. It’s so quiet that I can almost imagine we’re hurtling through space, the last two people in the universe. The lights of Silver Lake appear ahead of us, twinkling like multicolored stars against the black canvas of night. “Where’s Collier staying?” he asks.
“In those pay-by-the-week apartments near the campus. I think they’re on Pine Street.”
“I know the place.”
I barely hear him over the pounding of my heartbeat.
15
Ty opens the door, sees me standing on the stoop, and takes a quick step back. “Lily . . .” His voice trails as Wyatt moves out of the shadows behind me.
Motioning us in, Ty closes the door and stares at it, his back to us. In that moment, I forget that Wyatt is with me. I have the strongest urge to reach for Ty, to make him look at me. It’s impossible to believe that he was only pretending he cared about me because he wanted something.
“You know about my dad’s past, don’t you,” I say. He turns around, and I tell him what I found online. “What were you and Mom arguing about in the meadow?”
Dark circles rim Ty’s eyes. Exhaling, he says, “I told her if she won’t tell you the truth, I will.”
“I knew it,” I say with a sinking feeling.
“Lily, I—” Something behind me diverts his attention. “Hey!” Ty yells, bolting past me. “Get your hands off my stuff!”
I swing around. I didn’t even realize Wyatt had left my side, but he’s standing at the kitchen table holding a newspaper clipping. More clippings and a scrapbook are scattered across the table beside him.
Ty tries to grab the clipping from Wyatt’s hand, but Wyatt holds tight to the scrap and backs up to the wall. “It’s your dad’s obituary,” Wyatt calls to me. “Look at that stuff on the table. He’s been collecting all kinds of information about your family.”
I cross to the table and look down, my gaze skipping over loose photocopied articles containing image after image of Dad when he was young. I’ve suspected that Ty’s reason for coming here has something to do with my father’s past, but that doesn’t ease the gut punch of seeing the proof.
“Lily, wait,” Ty says as I open the scrapbook.
A reflection of my own younger face jumps out at me. I know instantly that it’s Iris, not me. My sister sits in a chair next to a piano, a violin lying across her lap. A smiling young woman stands next to her.
I feel unsteady as I turn the page to a magazine photo of Iris, posing again with her violin. She was probably eight years old at the time. An article fills the facing page, but I don’t pause to read it before moving farther into the book where I find a newspaper story containing a picture of Iris performing onstage when she was a teenager.
As I flip through page after page, more images of my sister flash before me: Iris standing between Mom and Dad on a groomed lawn in front of a two-story house that seems so familiar I can hear the squeak of the screen door when it opens; Iris with a group of other young musicians, all of them holding instruments, all of them dressed in black and white; Iris and a young man with wavy black hair and startling blue eyes smiling out at me from a homemade Christmas card addressed, “To Jillian,” and signed, “Love, Iris and Jake.”
Jake. Iris’s whisper of his name skims a tingling sensation along the surface of my skin. As if she’s speaking directly to him, she says, A part of me couldn’t forget. . . . I’ve been waiting. . . .
I brush my fingers across Jake’s image, so stunned I’m dizzy. Ty and Wyatt are talking to me, but their words don’t register. Slowly, I flip to the back of the book, and when I reach the final page a ringing noise fills my ears. Iris’s obituary is one column wide and three paragraphs long, with her picture at the top. My vision narrows until “Iris Marshall” is all I can read.
When Ty touches my arm, I turn and look up at him. “You knew about her, too,” I say, as the ringing in my head subsides.
He nods. “I’ve known about her all of my life. Before I was born, my mother was your sister’s music teacher.” He takes the scrapbook from my hands, closes it, and puts it on the table. Lowering his head, he exhales a quick rush of air. “I can explain all of this.”
Wyatt is by my side in the time it takes to blink. “You can come up with more lies, you mean. Just lik
e you lied to Lily about meeting her dad and the reason you came to Silver Lake. I bet you never even went to Columbia. I bet those references you gave Lily’s mom weren’t professors at all; they’re probably in on this. And the poor little brother in a coma’s probably made up, too.”
Ty recoils, and I snap, “Wyatt!” But what if he’s right? The truth is, the thought crossed my mind, too.
“No.” Desperation strains Ty’s voice. “I didn’t lie about Kyle or anything other than why I came here. I just—I didn’t tell you everything because I hoped your mom would. You should hear the truth from her, not me.”
“What truth, Ty?” I gesture toward the table. “Why are you collecting information on Dad and Iris?”
Wyatt slams Dad’s obituary down on the table. “No lies this time.”
Ty nods once and draws a breath. “Before my parents married, my mother lived in Boston and worked as a music teacher. Twice a week, your mom brought Iris in from Winterhaven for private lessons. She was only five when they started working together, and by the time she was seven, Mom knew that Iris had outgrown her; she needed a teacher with more skills and experience who could develop her gift in a way my mother couldn’t. So Mom sent her to the New England Conservatory in Boston.”
He pauses, and I say, “I get why your mother followed Iris’s progress, but why did she keep all those articles about Dad?”
“Those are mine.”
“You’re obsessed.” Wyatt almost spits the words as he walks to the ratty-looking sofa and plops down. Glaring at Ty, he adds, “You were stalking Lily’s dad, weren’t you.”
Keeping his gaze on me, Ty says, “I did come here to find your dad, Lily, but it’s not how it seems.”
I want so much to believe him, but every new thing I learn just makes Ty look more guilty. “On the morning of the accident . . . were you following us?” I ask.
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