There’s also a sickening feeling taking over me. While I had tried to block out all the charges Agent Kinblad flung at Dad, one of them was social security fraud. My college applications. My meeting with Ms. Pieper. Is that what led us here?

Kidnapping. Is this my fault? Would we have continued living our wonderful life if I had talked to Dad about the issue with my applications instead of Ms. Pieper?

Kidnapping. The word keeps echoing in my head. Kidnapping connotes that I’ve been held against my will, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

I want to be in the safety of my home with Dad. But I’m the reason we are here.

My questions. My applications. My needs.

Me. Me. Me.

I can hardly breathe.

Dad is being questioned by the police, and it’s all my fault.

I lay my head on the cool surface of Sheriff Gleason’s metal desk.

But … Dad has lied to me. For at least fifteen years.

He kidnapped me.

He forged documents. He did work that paid off the books.

The only thing he was ever strict about was oversharing on social media. He didn’t want people to find us.

If all of that is true, what does it mean? When can I see Dad again? Are we going to be able to go back to our life like nothing has happened?

Tears burn behind my eyes. It’s all too much.

The one person I’ve relied on my entire life is not at all who I thought he was. I’ll never be able to look at him the same way.

“Hey, Ally.” Sheriff Gleason comes to sit in his office chair. “Sorry you had to wait so long.” He looks tired. “Your dad’s doing okay. He’s told us everything we need to know. And I need to talk to you about a few things.”

He opens a manila folder and places a few photos in front of me. One of the photos is me, covered in cake, from my first birthday. It’s the one that’s on Dad’s bedside table. The other is a photo of me from a year or two later, I guess. And then there’s another image of a girl about my age. We share the same green eyes, dimpled chin, and light brown hair. There are certain features that look like I’m staring into a mirror.

I’m about to be sick. “Who is that?”

Sheriff Gleason shows a paper with two of the photos—the one of when I’m probably around three and then this other one, which features a big MISSING sign above the name Amanda Linsley. The other photo has AGE PROGRESSED written across the bottom. I start looking at all the information they have on this Amanda Linsley person.