The Shadow Girl (16 page)

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 like 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.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was hiking, that’s all. I had no idea you’d be up there. I know this looks bad, but I can clear everything up.”

“Then do it,” I say, joining Wyatt on the couch.

Pulling a chair over, Ty turns it to face us and sits down. “It’s a long story.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Wyatt snaps.

Ty looks from me to Wyatt, then back again. “I grew up hearing stories about Iris. Mom had recordings of her music that she played a lot. I wasn’t all that interested until Kyle got hurt and Mom started playing the CDs in his hospital room. I doubt he hears them, but Mom thinks he does. She believes that your sister’s music has some sort of positive effect on him. She said it impacted a lot of people who heard it.”

I sit straighter, thinking of Cookie’s progress after I played, and the peace I felt when I heard Iris playing in the video. “What kind of positive effect?”

“She says his vital signs improve for a little while, like he’s calmer or something.”

Ty’s face flushes and he has to look away to compose himself. Despite everything, my heart goes out to him. I don’t know Kyle, but the thought of him lying in a bed, completely at the mercy of a bunch of machines to keep him alive, makes me want to cry, too.

Wyatt scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t get what all this has to do with you coming to Silver Lake.”

Glancing at him, Ty says, “I’m getting to that.” He shifts his focus back to me. “Iris’s music—the more I heard it, the more it blew me away. Mom started talking about Iris all the time again. I think it helped take her mind off Kyle. This time I listened, and I started thinking about how Iris and Kyle both had terrible things happen to them when they were so young, and how, in a way, that connected them.” Blinking, he continues, “I couldn’t stand seeing my parents’ grief. I wondered how your mom and dad had managed to go on after Iris died. Mom had told me how close she used to be to your parents, and I thought maybe it would help if they talked.”

“So that’s why you tracked Dad down and came here?” I say quietly, aching for him. “To ask my parents to talk to your folks?”

“That’s part of it.”

Wyatt huffs his disbelief. “You came all this way for that? The Winstons have a phone.”

Casting a look in Wyatt’s direction, Ty says, “I would’ve called, but when I mentioned the idea of talking to the Marshalls, Mom said that she didn’t know where they were. That nobody did. They vanished off the face of the earth a few months after Iris died and nobody’s heard a word from them since. So I started searching for information. Partly because I really did want them to talk to my parents, and partly because it was a way for me to escape what was happening to my family.”

Digging my fingers into the couch cushion, I ask, “Why would they have disappeared?”

“Mom thinks it might’ve had something to do with your mother having a miscarriage about three months after Iris died. She thinks they might’ve wanted to start their lives over some place where they wouldn’t have any reminders of your sister.”

I shake my head. “Mom didn’t miscarry. I was born less than a year after Iris died.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Ty. “I think they lied about the miscarriage.”

“Why would they do that?” asks Wyatt, scowling. “And why would they change their last name?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“But you have an idea, right?” Wyatt says with a hint of sarcasm.

“I’m not sure,” Ty says more firmly. He seems to brace himself for my reaction when he adds, “Your mother changed her first name, too. She used to go by Melanie, not Myla. Melanie Marshall. She taught art at the high school in Winterhaven.”

I’m hit by a shock wave of disbelief. After seeing the video, after all the information I found online, I don’t have any reason not to believe him, but it’s so hard to accept what he’s telling me. “How could they pretend that they’re someone they aren’t? My whole life—my identity—it’s all a lie.” I stand and turn away.

Wyatt pushes to his feet and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “There’s got to be a good reason. This might sound stupid, but maybe they entered the witness-protection program or something. Maybe they did it to protect themselves.”

I was joking when I said the same thing to Ty yesterday. But now I grab on to that possibility because it’s the only one I can process. “That has to be it,” I say, looking up at him.

The wooden chair Ty’s sitting in creaks, drawing my attention to him. He shifts uncomfortably. “That’s not it, Lily. I’m betting they were trying to protect someone by running away, but not necessarily themselves.”

“Then, who? Me? What would they be protecting me from?” But the instant the question leaves my mouth, I recall Dad’s comment to Mom about the truth being my only protection.

Ty breaks my gaze and looks down at the floor. I can tell he’s still holding out. But why?

“What’s with all the riddles, Collier?” Wyatt says. “If you know something, why don’t you just spit it out?”

“Dad told his friend Mack that you threatened him at the coffee shop,” I say.

“I think maybe your dad just
felt
threatened,” Ty explains. “Maybe he was afraid I’d expose his identity, or that I’d go back home and tell people where he was. I never said that, though.”

“But if your mom and my parents were such good friends, wouldn’t Dad believe he could depend on you?” I ask. “Why would he get so upset?”

Ty’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

Wyatt utters a sound of disgust. “So much for telling Lily the truth. There’s more to all of this, and I think you know what it is.”

“Is he right, Ty?” I ask.

“I’ve told you all I know for certain,” he says. “Your mom is the only one who can fill in the rest of the blanks.”

I lift my hands, drop them. “But she’s not talking! I’ve given up on getting any answers from her.”

“Let’s get out of here, Lil,” says Wyatt. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to get more answers out of him, either.”

Ty doesn’t dispute Wyatt’s comment, so I follow Wyatt to the door.

“There is one more thing, Lily,” Ty says, following us. “You have an aunt in Winterhaven. Your dad’s sister.”

“Dad didn’t have a sister,” I say, confusion tearing me apart.

“I’ve met her,” he says. “Her name is Gail Withers.”

The name strikes inside me like a match. A memory flares, illuminating a freckled face, a riot of brown hair. The flame snuffs out, and the vision dies with it. Iris strokes an icy finger down my spine, freezing each vertebrae from my neck to my tailbone.
Aunt Gail
, she whispers.
I remember her
.
She’s in the video . . . when I was a baby
.

At the door, I catch my breath and pause. “I want the articles,” I say to Ty, motioning at the table.

He goes to gather the loose ones, slips them into a folder, then brings it to me. He gives me a pointed stare, quickly shifts his gaze to Wyatt, then back to me again. I finally get it—Ty has more to tell me, but he’s holding back because Wyatt’s here. Whatever he knows about Dad, he thinks I might not want Wyatt to hear it, which gives me a sick feeling that it must be something really bad.

Wyatt opens the door and we step across the threshold. He pauses and looks back at Ty. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he says. “But Lily and her mom can’t help you. It’s time for you to go back to New York or Baltimore or wherever you came from.”

Halfway home, Wyatt glances at me across the cab of the truck and asks, “What are you thinking, Lil?”