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  67. 3:46 a.m.

About Lassie. Yeah, he talks. It’s weird. He’s a pervert, but he’s awesome. He likes lasagna — like Garfield, Google it — and belly rubs and jingle balls. Oh, and he knocked up some cat named Peaches. Remember to tell him that.

Lastly, there is a red folder in your father’s house. It contains the file of your mother. Find her. Find her if it’s the last thing you do.

::::

There is a second email.

The sender is [email protected].

I call Isabel “Izzy” sometimes, so I assume it is from her, but the email account is one I’d never seen before.

It isn’t until I read the email that I understand why she created the account. She didn’t want the email to be traced.

I can barely breathe as I reread her words:

Henry…It’s Isabel. Two men came to my house yesterday and they were asking questions. They wanted to know about the hair sample I sent. They said that one of the hair samples belongs to a man who they have been trying to find for almost forty years. They left me their card. They are from some agency called the CID. I Googled it. It means they are from the US Army Criminal Investigation Command. Henry, I think they are looking for your father.

3:46 a.m.

:01

I push myself up in bed and glance at the clock on the dresser.

3:01 a.m.

Friday, February 26th.

Twenty-six degrees.

Mostly Cloudy.

There is something off about the clock. It’s at an odd angle. And it’s much closer to the edge than usual.

It takes me another second to realize why.

Just behind the clock, with a tiny paw half-extended, is the newest addition to the Bins family.

Archie.

The orange and tan striped kitten peers at me with wide eyes, then extends his paw to the clock.

“Don’t do it!” I shout.

In the three short weeks since Archie came into our lives, he has broken three wine glasses, two picture frames, Ingrid’s favorite coffee mug, and one Samsung Galaxy S6.

He glares at me for a couple seconds, then extends his paw.

The clock teeters on the edge of the dresser.

“Archie, don’t.”

Another glare.

Another push.

“Seriously, Archie, don’t push it again.”

He pushes it again.

It crashes to the floor.

“Dammit, Archie!”

I push myself out of bed and pick up the clock.

The LCD screen is shattered.

I replace the clock and pick the three-month-old kitten off the dresser. I can still hold him in one hand. He might have the same green eyes as his tabby mother, but the I-solemnly-swear-I’m-up-to-no-good twinkle certainly came from his father.

I say, “Dude, you have to stop breaking stuff.”

He gazes up at me. Eyes huge. Little pink nose wrinkling.

“That’s not gonna work on me.”

His little mouth opens and he licks my thumb.