I cry harder than I have in years because he sounds like he used to, when he promised me everything would be okay and he meant it. That’s not a promise he can keep anymore, but Dad’s hug is like a wall around me, and I hope he never lets go.

Mum said it was my fault over and over again, and Dad never argued. The proof was in his silence, but now I feel a sudden surge of strength.

I look at the box of notes and wonder if Dad has his own hiding place…if there are things he does that Mum will never know about, like the stories Logan tells that aren’t really stories at all.

If Mum finds the notes, Dad will suffer again, and I can’t risk that. Last time, she threatened to ruin him, and, next time, I’m terrified she will.

When I realize what we have to do, something shatters inside.

“We have to burn them,” I say.

“What?”

“If you hide them for me…and she finds them…”

I don’t have to finish the sentence, because Dad knows what could happen.

“I can make them disappear,” he whispers.

“No,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

In the garden, I lay the notes on the barbeque and set them on fire. If anyone found them, they’d know Logan isn’t Will, and, from there, the pieces would fall quickly. We need to hide what we are or risk losing what’s left.

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII

The new house is too big, but maybe that’s the point. Perhaps our secrets will keep growing and the only way to hide them is to have more rooms to keep them locked up in.

We couldn’t move in right away, so we stayed in an Airbnb while the builders finished up. Mum wanted a new bathroom and every wall painted white, except the new wall around the whole house that’s made of bricks and spikes. It’s supposed to make us feel safe, but it just makes us feel trapped.

I hate it here, because nothing reminds me of Will. He didn’t draw on any of these walls or run around these rooms. We didn’t cuddle up in this living room, watching cartoons, or play in this garden before that last horrible time. This is a house without my brother, which is exactly what Mum wanted. But our fresh start already feels stale.

Mostly I stay in my room and think about everything until my head hurts.

I’m repeating a year at school, because my grades dropped, and St. Gregory’s doesn’t put up with anything lower than a B. They’ve offered us a tour, and Mum said we should do it—one more attempt to look like a normal family.