The Shadow Girl

by Jennifer Archer

  “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?”

  Neither of us has spoken a word since we left Ty’s apartment, and I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I jump at the sound of his voice. I press my palms against the folder in my lap. “Everything he said . . . it’s too much to take in. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I know your parents. If they uprooted their lives and lie
d to you, there’s a good reason for it. I still think the most logical one is the witness-protection program. We should just ask your mom flat out.”

  “I guess, but the way she’s been acting, I doubt she’d answer us.” I nibble my lip. “What if I do have an aunt in Massachusetts? And maybe an uncle and grandparents and cousins?” My laugh sounds cold and sharp. “Wouldn’t it be crazy if I’ve been alone my whole life when I have this huge family I could’ve been a part of?”

  “You haven’t been alone,” says Wyatt softly. “I’m your family and you’re mine.”

  “I know that,” I say, my throat so tight with emotion I have to squeeze out the words.

  I turn my attention to the windshield and the dusty ribbon of road unfurling ahead of us. As much as I want to believe that Wyatt is right about the witness-protection program, it doesn’t make sense. Why would Mom be so terrified for me to find that out? And why would she feel a need to protect me from Ty?

  The motor hums as we rumble along the bumpy road. “My parents lived a very different life before I was born,” I say. “What Ty said about Mom teaching art in Winterhaven . . . it makes sense. She’s been an artist my whole life. And those sketches we found in the workshop. All of the things Ty said fit, Wyatt. I’m really scared.” I blink at him. “What does it all mean?”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” He turns off the county road and onto our lane. Glancing across at me he adds, “You and me together, okay?”

  Minutes later, Wyatt swings his truck into our gravel driveway, turns off the headlights, and kills the engine.

  “I’ll go in with you, and we can look through those articles,” he says.

  “We don’t have to tonight. It’s really late and you have graduation practice tomorrow.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, knowing that I’ll do it on my own after he leaves. “Wyatt, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’ll always be here if you need me. That’ll never change.”

  Shadows carve dark hollows beneath his cheekbones. In his expression, I see all the things that I’ve always loved about him, and more. I’m not sure I’m being fair to Wyatt since I still have feelings for Ty, but I don’t back away as he leans closer and cups my face. He traces my lower lip with the pad of his thumb, and I stop breathing.

  “I’m not good at this, Lily,” he murmurs.

  “You’re wrong about that,” I say in just above a whisper, smiling.

  Wyatt slides his hand to the back of my head and brings our faces so close that our noses touch. “I’d never lie to you. I’d never try to hurt or confuse you.”

  But he is confusing me. As our mouths meet, and I taste his lips and our breaths mingle, I can’t understand what’s happening to me. How can this be Wyatt who is turning my body to liquid heat? How can I be kissing him back as if I’m starving for him? How can I feel what I’m feeling for Wyatt when Ty still owns a giant piece of my heart?

  Shaken, I pull away, my heart in my throat.

  “Wow.” Wyatt exhales. “Was that Iris or you?”

  “Me.” I feel myself blush.

  “And you were kissing . . . ?”

  “You.”

  He grins. “I hoped you’d say that.” Reaching back, he opens his door.

  Wyatt is out of the truck, around to my side, and opening the door before I can move. He takes my hand to help me climb down, and we walk into the cabin together.

  I lay the folder on the coffee table, then peek into Mom’s bedroom. She’s still asleep, snoring softly. Closing her door, I return to the living room and whisper to Wyatt that everything is okay.

  “I’ll come by after practice tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll figure all of this out, Lil. I’ll even try to talk to your mom, if you want.”

  Still dazed by our kiss, I nod, unable to speak.

  “Well, see you later.” His gaze roams my face. “Don’t forget my graduation ceremony tomorrow night.”

  I stand at the front window and watch him drive away, stunned by what happened between us in the truck . . . and how he made me feel.

  I don’t go to bed after Wyatt leaves. Propped up against a pile of pillows on my bed with Cookie stretched out at my side, I stare down at the folder of articles Ty gave me, afraid to open it. My parents have betrayed my trust in so many ways. I’m not sure how many more of their lies I can handle.

  Cookie sighs so deeply he moans. “I know what you mean,” I murmur, stroking the velvet oval of his ear. My lips still tingle from Wyatt’s kiss. I want to regret what happened, but I don’t. Still, I’m torn. Shouldn’t my new feelings for Wyatt erase all my feelings for Ty? Even though I kissed Wyatt and liked it, it’s Ty I want to talk to now. Ty’s voice I want in my ear, his dark eyes I want to look into. The same dark eyes that calmed me that morning on the peak when Dad was dying and I was out of my mind.

  I want so much to believe that his feelings for me really kept him from leaving Silver Lake. I can’t stand thinking that he had an ulterior motive for getting close to me. Could it be true that he only came here to persuade Mom and Dad to talk to his parents?

  “Iris,” I whisper aloud, and hold my breath.

  She’s here, of course. The white noise that I’ve become accustomed to, the constant snowy static in the background of my mind that’s easy to ignore because it’s always there. “Is this how you felt about Jake?” I ask.

  There’s a break in the hiss, a hiccup so brief that I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been desperate to hear. And in that tiny space of time, the sighed words: Find him.

  I’ll try. Hoping for a miracle, I ask, Did Ty’s story bring back any memories? Other than our aunt, I mean?

  A reporter . . . he said my music had an incredible soothing effect. I played for patients in hospitals . . . nursing homes.

  Mom said you helped her, I say.

  Her lupus. The music made her forget the pain for a while.

  Encouraged by how much is coming back to her, I ask, What else, Iris? Who is the man who scared you? What did he make you do?

  Can’t remember. Jake will know. . . .

  Dread presses down on me as I open the folder in my lap. At the top of the pile of clippings I find an article from a 1993 newspaper about an investigation of Dad’s research. I stare at it for a full minute, hesitant to read what’s there. Finally, I take a breath and start at the top.

  Words swim before me . . . independent stem cell studies . . . raised ethical questions . . . gene manipulation on a human subject . . . led to child’s early death . . . cleared of misconduct . . .

  I sit back against the headboard, sick inside. I don’t completely understand what I read, and I’m not sure that I want to. What kind of man was Dad back then?

  Iris’s answer brings relief, if not understanding: The same man you knew.

  Desperate to believe her, I skim the article again, then with an unsteady hand, grab my phone off the nightstand and punch in Ty’s number. He answers after the first ring. “I was just about to call you,” he says.

  “Don’t leave in the morning. I read the first article. It was about one of Dad’s projects.” My voice falters as I add, “A little boy died, Ty.”

  He hesitates, then says, “We need to talk. I’ll come out there. I didn’t want to tell you about it in front of Wyatt.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

  “Don’t worry.” He exhales. “It wasn’t your dad’s fault. I’ll tell you what happened.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want to risk Mom hearing us. Meet me at the Daily Grind at six thirty. I want to leave the house before she wakes up. If I can’t get away for some reason, I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ty says.

  We hang up. I need to find those keys.

  16

  I leave Mom a note saying that Paula called from the Daily Grind and asked me to fill in for a sick employee. It’s something I do sometimes, since I worked there last summer, so I think she’ll buy it
. I spent all night looking for the keys, but didn’t find them, so I walked to the main road and caught a ride on the six o’clock bus that shuttles county workers into town each day.

  I arrive at the coffee shop before Ty and choose the table farthest from the counter. Other than Paula and her employee Rhonda, who are busy preparing for the morning rush, I’m the only person in the coffee shop. I order two hot chocolates and wait.

  Minutes later, Ty arrives. I melt like the marshmallows in my mug when he steps inside the door and sees me and his mouth tilts up into a lopsided smile. There’s a part of me that can’t help being drawn to him, no matter what he has or hasn’t done.

  He hurries over to the table and sits across from me. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Motioning toward the mug in front of him, I say, “I took a chance and ordered you a hot chocolate.”

  “Thanks.” He lowers his head to blow into his mug.

  Now that we’re alone, I’m self-conscious and off balance. I can’t stand to think of him leaving today. Watching him, I say, “So . . . tell me about my dad.”

  Ty looks up. “Your dad was a genius,” he says without hesitation. “He was also ethical, but he’d bend the rules if it was the only way to help someone. Some people might have a problem with that, but not me. That’s why I was researching his work, and why I had to find him—for Kyle’s sake.”

  “So you did have another reason for coming here.”

  He nods. “The stem cell research he was doing in the early nineties? What he did for that boy? It had to do with healing brain injuries like Kyle’s.”

  I take a moment to let that sink in. “Surely that sort of research has continued since then, hasn’t it? I mean, haven’t other scientists or doctors made even more progress? Why didn’t you go to one of them?”

  “No one else has had the same level of success regenerating injured neurons in a human brain. They’ve transplanted brain cells from donors, but damaged brain tissue usually has poor blood supply, probably because of swelling and scar tissue. So the transplanted cells don’t get the nutrients they need to grow.”