by Lynn Moon
CHAPTER 14
ONLY A WEEK WAS LEFT of school, and then we’d be out for the whole summer. More free time to research my family’s past and to find my ghost. Nibbling on my sandwich, I studied the two birth certificates. The original ones with the footprints matched those from the hospital that Hunter had given to me. But the one from the registrar’s office, now, those were obviously a fake.
“Not attacking your lunch today?” Hunter asked, sitting in front of me.
“Here,” I said, handing him the original birth certificates from my grandmother’s closet.
“How did you ever find these?”
“Stole them from my grandparents’ house.”
“Feeling guilty, are we?”
“Yes and no.” I pushed the small box of photos toward him. “Yes, because taking things is wrong. And no, because this is about me. Me and my dad.”
“Did you ask about your deceased uncle, who may not really be deceased?” Unwrapping his sandwich, he winked before looking over the photos.
“Yes. But she just said they called him Berty.”
“Berty, a nickname for Engelbert. At least you’re starting to piece things together.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell me more? Like, exactly when Berty died?”
“Probably because he isn’t dead,” someone said from behind me.
Startled, I swung around to see Quinton grinning. “I visited my uncle yesterday. He lives in Charleston. Anyway, I thought I’d give it a chance and see if he knew anything about your dad or uncle . . .”
“And?” I asked, glaring at him. Quinton always did this kind of stuff—start to tell you something, and then wait to see if you reacted. “Spill already.”
“Okay.” Quinton sat down next to me. “I can tell you now, ‘cuz I told Charlie about it yesterday. Anyway, my uncle said that he used to live in Salt Lake City, about a block from your grandparents’ old house.”
“They lived in Salt Lake City?”
“Yes,” Quinton replied. “Until your grandparents’ son got into some trouble with the law.”
“Who? My dad?”
“No.” Quinton shook his head. “Their other son—your uncle.”
“You mean Engelbert,” Hunter said.
“Yes, Engelbert,” Quinton repeated. “But they called him Berty, and they called your dad Nicky. Twin boys that looked identical, from what my uncle said.”
“Go on,” Hunter urged.
“Well, seems that they looked so much alike that it wasn’t until your uncle had a fit that anyone could tell ‘em apart.”
“A fit?” I repeated.
“Yes,” Quinton replied. “My uncle said Berty had a terrible temper. Completely out of control. Didn’t matter where he was. If he wasn’t happy or didn’t get his way, you’d know about it. Otherwise, no one could tell one boy from the other. Not even your grandparents.”
“How old were the boys when your uncle lived next to them?” Hunter asked.
“Kindergarten age,” Quinton replied. “That’d make them about five or so. My uncle said the family moved away while he was in the first grade.”
“Your uncle was the same age at Musetta’s dad?” Hunter asked.
“Yep,” Quinton replied. “And there’s more. During that time, a kid was killed in their neighborhood. My uncle said everyone believed that Berty did it. Awful temper and all. But before the cops could place the blame, the family moved away. Just disappeared into the night.”
“You mean, to where they’re living now? Behind my house?” I asked.
“No,” Quinton answered. “They moved far away. Like out of the state far away. My uncle said the family didn’t move back here until about fifteen years ago.”
“But my mom said they’d always lived here,” I said.
“To her, yes,” Quinton answered. “You see, your dad met your mom in college. Her family lived over in Timber Lakes. My uncle said her older sisters sold their family house a few years after their parents died. Paid for their colleges and all.”
“The other day my mom said something about our house being built before she met my dad.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Quinton replied. “I asked my dad about it and he said he remembers when the Weavers bought that old farmhouse. He also said your dad started building his house just a year or two later. Way before he ever met your mom.”
“This is confusing,” I said.
“Then what about Musetta’s uncle?” Hunter asked.
“I’m getting to that,” Quinton said. “My uncle said that the family moved way south to someplace called La Verkin.”
“I’ve heard about La Verkin,” I added. “It’s in Utah. Why do I know about La Verkin?”
“Well, it’s in La Verkin where the story gets weird,” Quinton said.
“Sounds pretty weird right now,” I said.
“As you know, school records are public once a child becomes an adult,” Quinton explained. “I had my dad pull the records, and guess what? Only your dad was registered at the schools in La Verkin. Your grandparents never registered his twin brother, Berty.”
“What if they’d put him in a hospital or something?” Hunter asked.
“My dad checked that too. Nothing,” he replied. “It’s as if Berty simply disappeared. As if he were never born.”
“Okay,” Hunter said, glancing at me. “Then what we do know is that a child was killed in Salt Lake City, and your grandparents believed Berty had something to do with it. Before the authorities could accuse him, the family moved away. Far away. Only to return years later. Once everyone had forgotten about the killing.”
“Everyone, except for the dead kid’s parents,” Quinton added. “I have their information. I know where they live, their name, and other stuff.”
“Where?” I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know.
“Seems they still live in the same house in Salt Lake City. Just a block away from where your dad used to live when he was five,” Quinton said.
“We need to visit them,” Hunter said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My grandparents had harbored someone they believed was a killer for over forty years, and no one knew about it. Is that even possible? Does my mom know anything about this? And what did my dad have to do with it? Did he help to hide his murdering brother?
“When my mom pulled the info about your dad’s birth she also looked into his employment records,” Hunter explained. “I don’t think she was supposed to do that, but she did. Anyway, on the forms that he submitted, it didn’t list a living brother. Just his parents, a wife, and a baby daughter.” Hunter sighed. “We’ve got to get to Salt Lake City.”
“How?” I asked. “And what for?”
“So we can find out what happened to that kid,” Quinton replied.
“Wouldn’t old newspapers tell us more?” Hunter asked.
“Sometimes,” Charlie said, sitting. “Sorry I’m late. Stopped by my locker to grab these.” Charlie dropped several sheets of copy paper onto the lunch table.
“When did you get these?” Hunter asked.
“I looked them up last night,” she replied. “I paid for a subscription to The Salt Lake Tribune. That newspaper’s been around for some time and they covered a lot of what happened back then. It was a little girl. Her name was Lavender. Always wore her hair in braided pigtails. No picture. She was six.”
Listening to my friends talk about my family’s secrets sent waves of anger and fear through me. How much of this does my living family know about? Apparently, my grandparents knew. Is this what my grandmother was thinking about yesterday when I looked into her sad eyes? And why does her bedroom always smell like fresh lavender? Is there a connection between that odor and the little girl that was killed?
“According to these old newspaper articles, Lavender was outside playing on her bike. When her mom called her in for dinner, she was nowhere to be found. The police discovered her days later, face-down in a ravine a couple blocks away from
her house.”
“How sad,” Hunter said, glancing at the articles.
“Does it say if they suspected my uncle?”
“No,” Charlie replied. “Just said she’d been raped with bruises on her neck.”
I froze. The man pretending to be my father had raped me over and over again. And the last time, he even strangled me. Does this mean that what happened all those years ago is happening again, right inside my bedroom?
“Musetta?” Hunter asked, grabbing my arm across the table. “Are you alright?”
I nodded and dropped my head into my hands. As tears fell, I wished I were dead.
Hunter ran around the table and gave me a hug. “It’s okay. This has nothing to do with you.”
“You are quite mistaken,” I whispered. “This has everything to do with me. And what else is out there that I don’t know about?”
CHAPTER 15
I MUST HAVE READ those old newspaper articles over a million times. So many times, in fact, that I could almost recite them by memory. With the school’s last week flying by in a hazy blur, all I could concentrate on was whether my family had hidden away a murderer. And if they did, where is he hiding now? In my grandparents’ basement? On the second floor of their farmhouse? So many lies. So many secrets.
It’d been almost a week since Charlie gave me the articles; school ended and we still had no idea how we’d get to Salt Lake City. The urge to visit Lavender’s parents grew stronger every day. Hiring a taxicab would be too expensive, and I just couldn’t ask one of my aunts to take us. I could hear it now: “Auntie Roe, would you drive us to Salt Lake City so we can look up a dead kid’s parents to see if my dead uncle had anything to do with it?”
Right, that will fly, won’t it? I was already visiting a shrink every week. If I told my family my suspicions about a dead uncle being alive, they’d probably lock me up. No, it was better if I solved this puzzle myself first. I needed more evidence.
As I paced across my balcony trying to come up with a solution, a loud bang pulled me from my thoughts. Glancing into the front yard, I saw Hunter waving at me from the iron gate. Not stopping to talk to Katrina, I ran through the kitchen and practically jumped into his arms.
“I’ve missed you,” I shrieked as he hugged my waist. I hadn’t seen Charlie or Hunter since summer started. “What are you doing here?”
“I just saw you last Friday. Mom dropped me off. Quinton and Charlie should be here soon. We need to find that hidden passageway. The one we got spooked out of.”
“But the entrance was covered up when they remodeled my room, remember?” Releasing my arms from around his neck, my heart pounded. Hugging Hunter was the best feeling ever.
“Hey, Musetta.” The front gate banged again. Smiling, Quinton climbed the steps. “Charlie’s on her way.”
As we waited for Charlie, we searched my yard for an entrance. Unfortunately, we found nothing out of the ordinary that would even come close. After Charlie arrived, Katrina insisted that we eat something before running off. With our stomachs full of cherry cake and milk, we sat on my balcony discussing how we could find that tunnel again.
“I recommend we study the old blueprints of this house,” Hunter suggested. “Maybe there’s something there we missed.”
“We did that and we didn’t find any hidden doors. Besides, I thought you drew up some plans of your own for this house?” I said.
“I did. All I came up with was that there’s passageways hidden inside the walls, and we already know that. What we need is the location of all the hidden doors.”
“And where are we going to find that?” Charlie asked. “Her mom already said she knows nothing about ‘em.”
“We need to check out every closet, every wall—everything.” Hunter waved his arms. “And anything that even slightly resembles a switch needs to be either pushed or pulled.”
“Okay, I say we pair off. One boy to one girl. I’ll feel safer that way,” Charlie replied.
“Quinton, you go with Charlie,” Hunter suggested. “I’ll search with Musetta.”
The idea of having Hunter next to me twisted my stomach into knots. Why am I feeling this way?
“Sounds good,” Quinton agreed. “We’ll search this floor.”
“I want to check out the attic,” Hunter said. “When you search her father’s study, don’t leave anything out. Okay?”
Quinton and Charlie nodded.
“Come on, Musetta. We’re headed upstairs.”
As we entered the attic, I couldn’t help but stare out the window. Half expecting to see my book bag in the tree, I laughed, cherishing the sight of empty limbs—nothing but leaves. Just like it was supposed to be.
“Pay close attention to the walls, Musetta. A hidden walkway requires space.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“Along here, where the windows are, there’s no room for a hidden passage. But over here, there could be. What’s behind this long wall?”
I shrugged.
“There could be another hidden room,” he said. “I counted the number of steps from your bedroom to here—sixty-three. I just counted about forty from the wall to the windows. Didn’t I see a dormer window over your bedroom?”
“Now that you mention it, yes, there is.” Glancing around, I asked, “So where is it? There should be a window over here and there’s only a wall.”
“I’ll bet there’s a hidden room behind this wall. The question is, how do we get into it?” Hunter ran his hand along the paneling. “Nothing.”
“Does the door have to be on this wall?”
“Not necessarily,” he replied. “What are you thinking?”
“There are two closets over here. And I remember them always being full of boxes. When Charlie opened one the other day, it was empty. Someone had shoved all the stuff from one closet into the other. Why would someone do something like that?”
Hunter opened the left door first. The small, rectangular room was filled with boxes and other things, such as old picture frames and broken furniture. After opening the door on the right, we stared together into the dark emptiness as if it would easily give up its secrets.
“Well?” I asked.
“Why is this closet empty and the other one so full? And I mean stuffed full.”
“See what I mean?”
“If I didn’t want someone to see something that was in here, I’d fill it up with junk. What would you do?”
“I’ll get Quinton and Charlie.” I ran to the stairs to find my friends. When we returned, Hunter was busy moving things around.
The boxes were not easy to move. While Quinton and Hunter struggled with the heavy cartons, Charlie and I moved the lighter pieces of old furniture. Touching my baby crib triggered some forgotten childhood memories.
“When I was a baby, my dad was the one who got me up in the mornings.” I leaned the railing against a wall. “Don’t know why I remember that. But I do. Isn’t that funny?”
“Memory residue,” Hunter said from the closet.
“Right,” I replied, pulling out the other crib railing.
“I think I found something.” Hunter peeked out. “You may want to look at this, Musetta.”
Walking into the small room, I felt a little sick. Am I ready to reveal my family’s dark secrets? Am I strong enough to learn and accept the truth? Following Hunter’s gaze, my eyes fell to the silhouette of a makeshift door.
“How do we open it?” I asked.
“Musetta!” Charlie yelled.
“Not now!” I yelled back.
“Musetta,” Charlie said again, only this time she glared at me from the closet door. “I think you better look at what I found.”
I stared; fear punched me directly in the gut. Still and as white as a sheet, Charlie held a large wooden frame with a painting of two little girls. Using the closet wall for support, I knelt down to get a better look. Not believing what I was seeing, I touched the canvas. As the cold ran into my fingers and up my arm, I gasped. Star
ing back at me was a very young me. In fact, a baby me. I recognized the portrait because there was another one just like it downstairs in the library. Only this one, the one that Charlie was holding, had two babies—not one.
“How can there be two of me?” I asked.
“There’s more,” Quinton said as he dug through the boxes the boys had dragged out.
“More what?” I asked, not wanting to know.
“More pictures,” he replied. “And there are two of you in them, too.”
Sitting on the floor, I studied the portrait of the baby girls. They were very similar, with only a few subtle differences. Right away, I knew which one was me. I was the dark-headed one. The other child was a blonde.
“I’m wearing the blue dress,” I breathed.
“Then who’s wearing the pink one?” Hunter asked, sitting down next to me.
“I would say a cousin,” I replied. “But I don’t have any girl cousins.”
“What if we showed this to your mom?” Charlie asked.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” Quinton cautioned.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because you might want to dig through these boxes first,” he replied. “There’s a lot of information in here.”
Hunter placed his hand on my shoulder. “There are twins on your mom’s side, and we now know that your father was a twin. It wouldn’t be out of the question if you were a twin, too.”
“Then where’s my sister?”
“Now that’s the million-dollar question,” Quinton said, peeking over Charlie’s shoulder. “Isn’t it?”
I allowed what I knew about my life to flow through my mind. If I had been born a twin, my mother surely knew. Why didn’t she tell me?
“We need to look at your birth certificate,” Charlie said, leaning the portrait against the wall.
“And if someone tampered with mine like they did my father’s? What would it prove?”
“We’ll get to the bottom of things,” Hunter said, squeezing my shoulder.
Before jumping to my feet, I took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I want to go through this door.”
