The Shadow Girl

12




Mom drives into town for a dentist appointment on Monday morning. Ty calls shortly after she leaves to say he’s going to be late coming to work. He has to make another trip to the hardware store.

I curl up on the rug next to Cookie’s bed. It hurts to see him so unhappy. He didn’t eat his breakfast, and he growled at me when I made him get up and go outside. I know he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t stop me from crying. Nothing seems right anymore. Cookie isn’t himself, and Dad is gone. Mom is like a ghost. I don’t trust my emotions when I’m with Wyatt.

Sometime later, I hear a car outside. Hoping it’s Ty, I go to the door. Instead, I see Dad’s friend Mack Sturdivant climbing out of his white Ford truck.

“Morning, Lily,” he calls, slamming the truck door, then moving slowly toward the porch, one hand pressed against the small of his back. He’s as stiff, thin, and leathery as the strips of beef jerky Ty eats.

“Hey, Mack,” I say, walking down the steps to meet him in the yard.

Wearing a sad expression, he pulls off his cap, and peers at me through his glasses. “Sorry about your daddy. Janie and me were up in Montana visiting the grandkids when Tony called and told us. It just about did me in. Your dad was a good friend.” Mack’s face reddens and crumples, and all of my emotions from the memorial come flooding back. “You and your mama doing okay, honey?” he asks, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.

“We’re getting by,” I say, choking out the words.

“She here?”

“No, she went into town.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, Mack looks up at the roof. “Addie’s boy finishing that for you?”

“No, sir. Mom hired someone. He’s not from around here.”

Mack scratches his beard and meets my gaze. “He a kid about your age? Shaggy dark hair?”

“Yes,” I say, surprised that he might know Ty.

“I think I met him at the coffee shop last time Tony and I were there with your dad. Apparently, someone had told him Adam might have work. I don’t know what was said between the two, but your dad left in a tailspin. I didn’t think anything of it until I called him later, and he said the boy threatened him.”

I flinch. “What?”

“He didn’t want to get into details, so I didn’t push,” Mack says, looking grim. “I just figured the kid might’ve been a little desperate and lost his cool when Adam didn’t hire him.”

“Dad didn’t mention anything about that,” I say, not willing to believe Ty could be the person Mack’s talking about. But I’m uneasy all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, if it’s the same kid.” His brows tug together. “One thing I do know, from the way your dad talked about him, he wouldn’t want that boy out here alone with you and your mother.”

“It must’ve been someone else,” I insist. “Ty’s really nice. And anyway, you said Tony was with you at the coffee shop, right?” When Mack nods, I continue, “Tony saw Ty at Dad’s memorial and left me alone with him. He wouldn’t have done that if Ty was the guy who threatened Dad.”

Putting his cap on and frowning, Mack says, “Could be that Tony didn’t notice your dad’s reaction to the kid. Like I said, it didn’t register with me until later when we talked on the phone.” He pulls a toothpick from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers. “I don’t know, honey. You could be right, but I’d feel better if your mom knew about this. Tell her to give me a call, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, not sure that I will. I refuse to believe Mack’s suspicions. He definitely has Ty confused with someone else, and I don’t want him telling Mom any of this. She’s already so wary of Ty, if she heard Mack’s story she’d fire him on the spot and forbid me to see him without even giving him a chance to defend himself.

After Mack leaves, I use my new keys to get into the workshop. There’s an expectant hush in the air that sets my nerves on edge. Leaving the door open, I make my way to the storage closet. I drag the shiny toolbox to the middle of the room, then drop to my knees and open it. I lift out the jewelry box, the hairbrush, and the stacks of clothing.

What am I looking for, Iris? I ask. If this was Mom’s stuff, I don’t see how it relates to you or me. Do you see something that looks familiar?

The violin, she breathes.

I reach for the case at the very bottom of the chest, set it on the floor, then replace everything else and put the chest back where I found it. Certain Mom will be gone for a while, I take the violin back to the cabin.

It’s warmer today, so I leave the door ajar. I lay the violin case on the couch, then check on Cookie sleeping steps away on his bed. He moans low in his throat when I touch him. Upset over his sadness, I return to the couch.

When I open the violin case, my breath catches. The instrument is beautiful, with its golden wood and smooth, graceful curves. I remove it from the case, and Iris sighs, Oh . . . , as a tingle radiates up my arm.

Shaken by emotions I don’t understand, I lift the bow, prop the violin on my shoulder, and settle my chin on the chin rest. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, then exhale slowly.

Everything except the instrument in my hands disappears. I no longer smell the scent of this morning’s bacon or hear the tick of the wall clock or feel the softness of the couch cushion beneath my thighs. A rush of noise that sounds like applause surrounds me, then slowly fades to an expectant hush as one exquisite note—a quiet plea—stretches into a sweet cry of longing. The music swells until it’s all-consuming. White-hot and bright, it fills me up, spills out of my pores, and wraps around me.

The sound of my whispered name brings the world crashing back. I blink. Ty stands inside the doorway, his widened eyes darker than ever against his pale, shocked face. Surprised to see him, I set the violin inside the case and try to stand, but my legs are rubbery, so I slump back onto the couch. “I didn’t hear you come in,” I say.

He steps toward me. “Why didn’t you tell me you can play?”

“What are you talking about? I was messing around.”

Ty shakes his head, an amazed expression on his face. “You were incredible. Didn’t you hear yourself?”

I heard something. Breathtaking music in my imagination. Maybe a buried memory of Mom playing when I was very small, or some random orchestra performance I saw on TV once. “You’re teasing me,” I say with a laugh. “I must’ve been terrible.”

Sounding awestruck, Ty says, “You’re the one teasing. My mom’s best students don’t compare to you.”

“I’ve never touched a violin until today.” I close the case, nervous for some reason. “How could I pick up a violin for the first time and instinctively know how to play? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know what I heard.” Reaching across my lap, he raises the lid on the case, takes the violin out, and lays it on his knees. “This thing’s a piece of art.”

I look up at him. “I found it locked in the storage closet in Dad’s workshop. It’s almost like my parents were trying to hide it from me.”

The way Ty is watching me, like he’s sort of impressed but also a little freaked out, makes me feel self-conscious. Exposed.

I cross my arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m trying to understand how you can have such an amazing ability and not even know it.” He holds the violin out to me. “Once more, okay? Pay attention this time.”

My first instinct is to refuse. But then Iris’s heat permeates my skin and her breath tickles my eardrum as she whispers, Please try. I need to feel the music again.

I look down at the violin and I understand her request. I need to feel the music flow through me, too.

This time, I don’t drift away on the notes that bleed from my fingers, I weep along with them. Without even trying, I’m playing the music box song, the lullaby that Iris sang on nights during my childhood when I couldn’t sleep.

As the last note drifts into silence, Iris breathes, I remembered something. Help me . . . what did they do?

Panic as cold as windblown snow flutters through me. I open my eyes. Who is Iris talking about? What does she mean? She wouldn’t have memories separate from mine.

Unless she used to be alive . . .

I avoid Ty’s gaze as I stand, return the violin and bow to the case, then run my fingertips across the wood. I have the strongest urge to play it one more time, but I’m afraid to experience those powerful emotions again. I’m afraid of what Iris might be remembering.

I pull my hand back and close the lid, setting the case on the floor beside the couch. “Please take it out of here,” I say. “Put it in my dad’s workshop.”

Ty takes hold of my hand and doesn’t let go until I sit down beside him. “You have an amazing gift,” he says. “Don’t be afraid of it.”

“It’s not playing that scares me,” I say. “It’s the fact that I can. I must be a freak!”

“No.” Ty shakes his head, and his voice is tender as he says, “You’re a miracle.”

His words take me back to the morning of my birthday. As Dad and I watched the sunrise, he said the same thing: You can’t even imagine what a miracle you are.

A miracle? More like an aberration. Having Iris in my life isn’t normal. She isn’t normal. Which means I’m not, either, and I just proved it.

Is my musical “gift,” as Ty called it, the secret Dad was going to tell me on the morning of my birthday? Did he know about it? Did he know about Iris? Does Mom?

Ty wipes a tear from my cheek with his fingertip, then leans forward and kisses me softly. The next thing I know I’m kissing him, too, clinging to him, clutching the fabric of his sleeves. But I draw back and shove Ty away when I hear footsteps on the porch. I shift to see the door and find Wyatt standing on the other side of the screen, watching us with a wounded look on his face.

“Wyatt!” I shoot to my feet as Ty scoots to the opposite end of the couch.

Without saying a word, Wyatt turns and starts down the stairs again.

I run to the door. “Come back!” I shout.

But he keeps walking.



Ty sits on the couch, watching me pace as I try to reach Wyatt on his cell.

“Shouldn’t he be in school?” Ty asks.

“It’s a short week for seniors,” I tell him.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset that he saw us.”

Wyatt isn’t answering, so I put my phone in my pocket. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Ty cocks his head. “You sure it’s not more than that?”

The concern in his voice brings tears to my eyes. I stop pacing and look down at him. “Does it matter? I mean, you’re leaving soon. We won’t see each other again.”

“Says who? We’ll stay in touch, Lily. And I might come back.”

“I guess, but . . . I’m just confused about everything.”

“Are you talking about the way you played? Or are you talking about us?” he asks quietly.

“Both,” I say.

I walk to Cookie’s pen, and kneel beside it. Reaching in, I ruffle his fur, surprised when he raises his head and his tail starts to wag. I scratch between his ears, and he lowers his head again and heaves a contented sigh. But his tail 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 crazy. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

I stare down at him. What if it isn’t a theory? What if Ty knows more than he wants to admit? Dad’s voice drifts through my mind, warning, Don’t trust anyone . . . , and I recall Wyatt asking me to think about why Ty came to Silver Lake, why he’s willing to finish roofing our cabin for so little money.

Ty stands and steps toward me, but I back away and cross my arms. “Did you meet Dad once?”

All the blood in my body pools at my feet when he remains silent, his Adam’s apple shifting up and down.

“Dad’s friend Mack stopped by today before you got here. He said you talked to Dad at the Daily Grind a couple of days before the accident. I told him it must’ve been someone else.”

Ty’s chest heaves once. “Lily, I—”

“Did you meet him?”

“I can explain.” He reaches for me.

“Don’t!” I snap, pulling back. “Why have you been lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t mention meeting your dad. It didn’t seem important.”

“I guess the fact that you threatened him wasn’t important enough to mention, either?”

“Threatened him? Lily, that’s not—” The denial dies on his lips and he blinks rapidly, as if he recalls something he’d rather forget.

“Why did you come to Silver Lake?” I ask, glaring at him. “What did you want from Dad? What do you want from me?” I think of the times we’ve kissed and humiliation threatens to strangle me. Did Ty get close to me for a reason? Does he know something about my parents’ past?

“Let me explain,” he says again.

“There’s no excuse for threatening my dad.” I point at the door, wanting him out of my sight. I can’t even think straight right now. “Get out.”

“Lily—”

“Get out!”

The vein at Ty’s temple jumps. Shamefaced, he turns and strides out the door.

Slumping to the floor, I prop my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands, too stunned to cry. When the sound of Ty’s car engine fades, I force myself to get up and go to the chest, wondering what else I might’ve missed besides that T-shirt. Class of ’95.

I take out clothing, piece by piece, studying each item, trying to imagine who it might’ve belonged to. One name keeps pushing to the forefront of my mind, but I shove it back, afraid to acknowledge it.

I feel the edge of something hard wrapped in a folded sweater and pause to pull the fabric aside. It’s a black plastic videocassette. The kind that my parents used to watch in their old VCR when I was younger. Sitting back on my heels, I turn the cassette over in my hands, looking for a label, but I don’t find one.

Lying next to the chest, the violin case catches my eye. I feel drawn to open it and take the instrument out, in spite of how much it scares me. Acting on the impulse, I gather my courage, lift the violin from the case, and play again—only a few chords, but they take my breath away.

I’m lowering the bow when something wet sweeps my ankle. Looking over my shoulder, I find Cookie on his feet, licking me, his tail wagging and his eyes shining bright. With a half sob, half laugh, I put the violin away, then turn and wrap my arms around him. “What’s happened to you, boy? What’s making you so happy all of a sudden?”

The music, Iris says.



I don’t have time to watch the video before Mom gets back. She perks up when she notices the change in Cookie.

“I guess the medicine finally kicked in,” I tell her, not willing to bring up the violin and other things in the chest just yet, or Iris’s claim that the music soothed Cookie and gave his mood a much-needed boost. There’s so much I need to understand before I confront her. I want facts that she won’t be able to push aside or easily explain away.

If Mom notices that Ty isn’t around to do his job, she doesn’t mention it. She works on Dad’s business files at the kitchen table all afternoon. I realize I’m going to have to wait until tonight when she’s asleep to use the VCR.

I try repeatedly to call and text Wyatt but he doesn’t answer, so at four o’clock I walk to his house. He isn’t there. Addie tells me that he met some friends at the hockey rink.

My stomach flips each time I think of his expression when he caught me making out with Ty. I can only imagine how hurt he must be.

When I ask Iris what she remembered when I played the violin, she says, I used to play, too. My music meant so much to people. . . .

I feel a shifting inside me, as if everything I’ve ever believed about Iris and myself has suddenly changed shape. You played the violin? You were alive?

Yes. Her excitement bubbles up like soda water. But I don’t know when, or who I was.

I can’t process anything she says. My mind is stuck on one thought: Iris is a ghost? How is that possible? She seems like a part of me, not something separate—someone who once had a life. But how do I know how to play, too? I ask.

Not sure.

My head throbs from all I’ve learned today. I start up to my bedroom early, hoping Mom will follow my lead so I can sneak downstairs and watch the video. Maybe it will answer some questions. I try to coax Cookie to climb the stairs to the loft with me, but although he seems much more content, he’s still exhausted. After taking three steps up, he sits on the stair, unable to go any farther. Hefting him into my arms, I carry him the rest of the way.

Minutes later, after washing my face in the bathroom, I open the door and startle when I see my laptop computer open on my nightstand with the screen aglow.

“Iris?” I whisper.

I didn’t open it or turn it on before going into the bathroom, did I? Did she do it through me? Did I forget?

I don’t have an answer to that, but I know what she wants. I’ve been thinking of the same thing ever since Ty left.

Sitting on my bed, I search the internet for “Adam and Myla Winston. Winterhaven, Massachusetts” using several different combinations of their names and the town. I insert the word carpentry, thinking that Dad might’ve worked there, then artist after Mom’s name. Nothing comes up.

Setting the laptop aside, I lie on my back, pull Cookie into the crook of my arm, and stare at the ceiling. Ty’s theories spool through my mind. How can I even consider that anything he says might be true? My parents lived in Winterhaven and ran away to escape some threat? It’s a totally far-fetched idea . . . yet it would explain so much.

I think of the T-shirt and who might’ve worn it. Class of ’95.

Iris stirs, saying, It’s familiar.

Her statement lifts my focus to the wall beside the bed where my shadow looms, cast there by the lamplight. The sight of it takes me back to a memory I have from when I was four. Iris and I were playing here in my bedroom when Mom came upstairs.

Smiling, Mom asked, “What’s so funny, Lily? I heard you laughing. Who were you talking to? Is Cookie up here?”

“No,” I said. “I’m talking to my friend.” I pointed at the rug. “That little girl. See?”

“Ah,” Mom said. “Your shadow.” She winked. “The two of you are like paper dolls, stuck together at the feet. What did you tell the shadow girl that made you giggle?”

“She told me something.”

“Your shadow isn’t a person, Lily,” Mom explained. “It’s just your silhouette, an outline of you. The little girl is just an imaginary friend.”

“No, she’s real. She told me her name and it’s a flower name like mine. It’s Iris. Isn’t that pretty?”

Energy sputtered in the silence that followed, and I knew it was Iris tickling the hairs at the back of my neck. She was nervous because of the way Mom was staring at us.

“Adam! Would you come up here, please?” Mom called over the deck railing, and I heard something in her voice that made my heart kick my chest. My mother was upset, and I didn’t know why. What had I done?

Dad’s footsteps were loud on the stairs. “What’s going on?” he asked when he reached the landing.

Mom motioned toward me. “Lily’s been carrying on a conversation with her shadow,” she said in a hushed voice.

“So she has a pretend friend.” He shrugged. “She’s four. It’s perfectly healthy.”

Mom exhaled a jittery breath. “Tell him what the shadow girl told you, Lily,” she said.

“Don’t be mad!” I cried. “Iris is nice. She’s my real friend, not pretend.”

“Iris?” Dad’s chin jerked up. He shot Mom a look.

She nodded. “According to Lily, the girl said that’s her name.”

Dad was quiet for a long time. Then he picked me up, hugged me, and carried me to the bed. He told me about shadows. That they’re reflections cast by a light. That they can’t talk. He was patient and asked me if I understood that the shadow girl wasn’t a real person.

Mom watched me closely, her expression scaring me. I could tell that it was important to them both that I believed what Dad had said—that the shadow girl wasn’t real. So I answered yes even though that wasn’t true.

I knew then that Iris would have to be my secret, but I didn’t understand why she made Mom so anxious.

Maybe now I do.

My blood chills as Iris begins to hum, the lullaby faint and wheezy, flickering out and in again like a radio station with poor reception.

Iris, you have to try to remember who you were, I say, desperate for her to disprove my suspicions.

She stops singing, coils tight with frustration. I can’t.

“What are you?” I whisper aloud. If you were alive, that means you’re a ghost. Is that right?

I’m not sure what I am. We have to find out what they did.

Her words suck the air from my lungs. Who, Iris? Who are you talking about? Did someone hurt you?

Something bad happened . . . I can’t remember. They made me do something I didn’t want to do. . . .

I’ve never been uneasy with Iris’s presence . . . or worried about her. Now I’m both. She asked me to help her, but I don’t know how.

Feeling powerless, I sit up and listen for Mom, hoping she’s asleep so that I can watch the video. But I hear her stirring below. Popping the iPod earbuds into my ears, I scroll down to a punk rock playlist to drown out my thoughts and make the time pass faster. It doesn’t work. Beneath the screech of guitars and pounding of drums, I hear a violin playing the jewelry box song, the same melody that flowed through my fingers today . . . as if by magic.



Something wakes me in the middle of the night. I sit up. The house is quiet.

The earbuds lie on my pillow like a tangled nest. As I slip from the bed, Cookie curls deeper into the blanket. I take the video from my nightstand drawer and go downstairs, careful not to make any noise.

The fire has died, leaving ash in the grate and a smoke-scented chill on the air. Barefoot and shivering, I cross the living room, headed for the television cabinet. Our old VCR sits on the shelf beneath the television. It’s hooked up, although we haven’t used it in years. I fumble to turn it on, and a green light spears through the darkness. Shoving the cassette into the machine, I reach for the remote and turn the television on, adjusting the volume to low.

The film is out of focus and blurred, but Mom’s voice comes through the speakers.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, sounding distant and scratchy. “I know you’re nervous, but I don’t have a single doubt that you’ll be wonderful.”

Iris snaps and sparks like a live wire. My muscles twitch. I hold my breath and look for the button on the remote to adjust the screen’s brightness, hoping the image will be easier to see with more background light. But before I can find it, a second voice makes me pause. It’s familiar. The voice of a young girl.

“The finale is off,” she says. “Would you listen again and tell me what’s wrong?”

“Of course,” says my mother.

The video flickers, shifts and enhances, as if the person filming did some fine-tuning. Iris shivers as I take in the now-vivid picture, and a thousand needles prick my skin.

It’s like I’m seeing myself at the age of thirteen or fourteen years old, but I don’t recognize the room in the scene—the dark green velvet sofa, the long flowing draperies behind it, the fancy Chinese rug on the floor. Because the girl isn’t me. We could be twins, though. Except for her short haircut and her porcelain pale face, we look exactly alike. Her hair is the same dark auburn shade, her eyes the same dark brown. She wears a simple white dress like one I found in the chest in Dad’s workshop.

My twin reaches for a violin on a glass coffee table and stands. She looks into the camera and frowns, bites her lower lip as if she’s hesitant . . . unsure of herself.

“Take your time,” says the cameraman with a tone of encouragement. “There’s no need to rush, Doodlebug.”

At the sound of Dad’s pet name for me, I stop breathing. It’s his voice. He’s filming the scene.

The girl smiles as she looks at my father with loving eyes identical to mine.

Lily, Iris says, her tone capturing my shock as the camera shifts to a woman sitting on the opposite end of the couch. It’s my mother when she was much younger. She’s radiant, with shiny hair so dark it’s almost black and eyes that sparkle with happiness. Scooting to the edge of the couch, she claps her hands together and says, “Aren’t you proud of our beautiful daughter, Adam? She’s worked so hard.”

“Of course I’m proud,” Dad answers, aiming the camera again at my twin. “You’re going to shine tonight, sweetheart.”

Smiling nervously, the girl places the bow against the strings and begins to play the same piece that I played this morning for Ty. The jewelry box song.

I stand frozen in place, listening, stunned, and when she finishes, Mom cheers and Dad exclaims, “Wonderful, Iris!”

A whirlwind spirals up inside of me, and the sound of a gasp spins me around. Mom stands behind me, one hand clutching the handle of her cane, the other pressed to her mouth. Our gazes lock.

“Iris was real,” I cry. “You said I imagined her, but you knew I was telling the truth. I had a sister! Didn’t I have a right to know?”