And the lies about my past?

I wrestle that question into submission. It doesn’t really matter if my birth mom was an addict, or if my real father is a murderer, warehoused in some prison, if they’re both long dead, or even if Hana and Wess weren’t lying about my history but always had suspicions. Dad is right about one thing. There’s nothing good in my past or I wouldn’t have ended up in the foster system. I need to focus on the future, make sure I still have one.

Thomas pokes his head out of my bedroom. “Sylvie?”

At the end of the hall, I motion Moose inside the room. “Bathroom break,” I say and shut the door. With one last listen to make sure both my parents are still in the kitchen, I dart up the narrow staircase.

Their bedroom looks the same. Gray carpet on wood floors lacquered white. Four-poster bed handed down from Hana’s grandmother, covered in a quilt of red and blue snowflakes. A worn leather chair sits beside the window, wicker basket beside it filled with balls of white, cream, black, and green yarn, knitting needles stabbed into a half-finished scarf. A white barn door that’s hung on an overhead iron track separates the bathroom. I grab the iron handle and slide it open. The grating sound of wagon wheels along the track makes me shudder.

The bathroom used to be pale yellow but is now painted moss green. I cross to the medicine cabinet. There’s a box of extra-strength antacid. I turn on the faucet and wash down a pink pill. The mirror reflects a rectangular walk-in shower on the back wall with a glass door. Inside are tiny gray and white tiles . . .

A vision of a little girl, skinny body huddled on that tile beneath a frigid cascade of water, flickers. The room spins like one of those whirling teacups at an amusement park. A sideways shuffle and I slump onto the woven leather stool in the corner. Head pressed between my hands, I search for a spot to anchor myself; like I did the first time I got drunk on strawberry daiquiris with Holly and had the spins. There’s a bubble in the paint, low down on the frame of the bathroom door. I pull the door close and put my finger directly on the bubble. It’s soft enough that my nail goes through. When I pull back, a scab of paint rips free, revealing the barn door’s previous color—brick red.

The panic attack hurtles toward me like an asteroid. There’s no time to run . . .

TWENTY

Thomas

Hana and Wess’s reaction to the letter from the National Transportation Safety Board was a silent explosion. In that moment it was clear they both knew that the plane crash was a lie. And Sylvie recognized that they knew it, too. I thought she might’ve been in on it, but the way her face collapsed? No one is that good an actress. That moment when you realize your parents aren’t who you wanted them to be, or who you need them to be, is devastating. A wave of pity hits. But I’m not Sylvie’s friend, or even an acquaintance. I’m a journalist.