Page 50 of Buried Roots

Lastnightwasintense…and incredible. But I’m glad we stopped when we did because it all happened so fast. I need time to process—I can’t believe the feelings I’ve developed for Owen in this short amount of time. I mean, I’ve had colds last longer than our relationship.

After our amazing tryst in the shower, we showed Annie’s picture to Owen’s family, but no one recognized her. Then, this morning, I went to downtown Violet Moon, store to store, asking anyone and everyone. No one knew her.

After my hazy memory about the black-eyed Susans, I’m even more desperate to get onto Bo’s computer. So here I am, Saturday morning, standing over Levi as he sits at the desk and turns on Bo’s laptop. My stomach tumbles as I watch him work.

Levi continues to click away on the computer, saying nothing, until I can’t take it anymore. “Anything?” I say.

“This isn’t good.” He stares at the screen intensely.

My heart sinks. “What’s not good?”

Levi swings the chair around to face me. “Bo put massive security on this thing. It’s password protected and encrypted. I can’t crack it, no way.”

“What?” I rub my eyes. “Why would a farmer require encryption?” My face heats with growing frustration that there are no answers in this house. Why are there no records? No albums except one of Bo and Lily’s honeymoon? Why was the one photo I found of the woman who may or may not be my mother the only thing left? Hidden attic space in the barn? And now, why did Bo put massive security on his computer?

And then there’s that threatening note.

“No reason I can think of.” Levi points to the screen. “He used IronLock, the system that security companies use.”

Good god. “How well did you know Bo, Levi?” I’m desperate, looking for anything.

“Not well. He was a nice boss. Friendly. Paid me on time. I never would’ve guessed he’d have this kind of system.” Levi stands. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m so happy you tried.” I wring my hands. “One more thing before you go. I found an old photo of someone, but all it lists is a first name. Do you know any facial recognition software I can use to find out who she is?”

Without hesitation, he says, “Sure. There are tons out there. I can get you set up with a good one.”

“Thank you.” Air whooshes from my lips. “I’m adopted, and this might be my biological mother.” I hand him my laptop.

He sits, and excitement courses through me as Levi’s fingers tap rapid fire on the keyboard. When the site appears, I stop breathing.

“Just create your account.” He turns the computer to face me. “The rest is easy.”

“Thank you, Levi. This is great.”

“No problem.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes to smoke as soon as he’s outside. Which reminds me, I should tell him to stop leaving his butts around. Except right now, I’m grateful for his help and don’t want to deal with that.

After he leaves, I set up my account, which takes forever to verify my email and phone number. Swallowing back the ball of nerves rising from my gut, I say, “Here we go.” I upload Annie’s photo to the website, press submit, then wait as the “Searching” wheel turns.

Finally, the wheel stops, and a red message pops up. My stomach clenches as I read, “Photo upload error. Try again.”

I groan, biting my lip. My palms get clammy as I try uploading the photo again, now concerned this isn’t going to work.

That damn “Searching” wheel spins for an eternity. When the message comes up this time, it’s green. My pulse kicks into overdrive as I read the words, “One match.”

My breath stops. “There’s a match,” I say, the nerves twisting tighter in my stomach. Under the picture is the name Annie Walsh, and it’s linked to an article. Clicking on it, I read the headline: “Atlanta Teen Missing.”

With trembling fingers, I glance at the picture of Annie that I found. Then, my eyes scan the article, which was updated to include that she’d run away and had been located.

I stare at the screen, trying to process what I’m seeing. Iknowthis is my mother. I can feel it, but since feelings don’t prove things, I have to keep searching. Still. I’m vibrating with excitement because it all adds up. She was young, running away from home. She probably gave me up for adoption because she couldn’t take care of me.

Immediately, I go to the birth records website and type in “Willow Eloise Walsh,” finding no matches. I try different variations, using the term, “Georgia” with just my first name, then just my middle name, but nothing comes up. I repeat the process in Google but find no one linked to Annie.

I try not to let defeat get to me because I still have a good feeling about this. “I just need to find her,” I utter. My knee bounces as I launch into a frantic Google search of her name. Pages and pages of results come up, as it’s a very common name. And after clicking on numerous links of different Annie Walshes that are not her, I retry my search with, “Annie Walsh Georgia.”

Scrolling, I come across an obituary for an Annabelle Walsh. I hope this oneisn’ther.

My stomach crashes to the floor when I see the same woman in the photo, only older. It is her. Tears well in my eyes, the grief hitting hard and fast.

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