“Can I help?” Sheriff Gleason calls after me.

I scan Dad’s room. He took the smaller of the two bedrooms, saying he only needed a place to rest his head at night, while I required my own space since I was growing up. His bed is still made, with a navy blue plaid comforter. The only other pieces of furniture are a chest of drawers and a nightstand, with a lamp and a book of crossword puzzles on it. I go to the drawers and start rummaging through his stuff.

“Ally?” Sheriff Gleason asks. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

I have no idea, but I hope to find some answers.

There were plenty of times I could’ve gone through Dad’s things, but never had a reason to snoop around. Or doubt anything he’d told me.

Not anymore.

There are only clothes in the drawers. Next up, I open the door to his small closet. A variety of button-down shirts and pants hang. Sneakers and work boots are on the floor, but there are a few shoeboxes above. I grab them and pull them down.

They are really light, practically weightless.

Bingo.

One box has the year written on it and is filled with receipts. (God, being an adult seems so mundane.)

I open the second box and dump out the contents. More slips of paper. Some have numbers written on them. Then my breath catches as I see Dad’s old driver’s license from Florida. No, it’s Daniel Linsley’s driver’s license. It’s been hard to believe my dad was this other person—Daniel Linsley—but here it is. The name, the photo, the address, and his birthday.

His real birthday. A month and year earlier than he told me.

My eye catches on two small photos, which were probably in his wallet when we left.

One is a photo of my dad and a woman I can only assume is Paula at their wedding. I’ve never seen this before. I’ve never seen her face before. Dad has always said that it hurt to look at her, so I never pushed him on it. The one picture of my mom and me in my bedroom is from right after I was born. The mother’s head is turned and looking down at a very pink newborn baby.

I trace her face with my hand. We have the same green eyes. I have her eyes.

That simple fact alone makes me feel closer to her.

The other photo is a younger version of Dad on the beach. There are two older people. His parents? And a woman who looks a little older than he is. Could it be a sister?

Oh my God, my dad’s parents might be alive. And his sister. Of course they are. I’ve been so focused on Paula, but I probably have family on his side as well.