Page 67 of Buried Roots

Joy and relief rush through me as a lifetime of subconscious thirst is finally quenched.

That’s why I don’t remember anything here—Bo and Lily moved here after I was adopted. But why do I remember the black-eyed Susans that are on the far edge of the property?

I look back into the box and put a trembling hand over my mouth.

I slowly reach for what’s inside, afraid to touch it. It’s a picture of that godforsaken cross in front of the tree, freshly planted with a bouquet of wildflowers and a framed picture of a black lab. “I know that dog.” I flip the photo over to see the date, scribed in familiar chicken scratches. In the same handwriting that was on Bo’s will and the back of his and Lily’s wedding photo, it says, “October 12th, 2002.”

My breath grows cold in my chest. Blood is rushing from my face, and my vision fogs. Unsteady, I pull out a newspaper clipping. As my eyes scan it, all the blood drains from my limbs.

It has a picture of me, four years old, holding a red lollipop and smiling at the camera. The paragraph reads, “Willow Murphy returned to her heavenly home on October 9th, 2002, leaving behind her mother, Annabelle Walsh and her caregivers, Bo and Lily Underwood.”

Caregivers? I stop and squeeze my eyes shut.So I was right—they did help raise me.That’s why they left me this estate. I fight to get my mind to recall any scattered memories, but there’s nothing. A fire ignites in my gut at a realization. “They helped raise me, but then they faked my death at five and gave me away? What the hell?”

I grip the article. Everyone says Bo and Lily were good people, but it doesn’t seem like it. “Was my adoption even legal?” My chest is rising and falling. Maybe I don’thaveadoption papers, which is why they can’t be found. I mean, you can’t adopt a dead person!

And my last name was Murphy, different from Annie’s, which was Walsh. That’s why I could never find an obituary or any information about myself. So is Murphy my biological father’s surname? That would mean I might be able to find him.

But maybe I don’t want to.

My heart thundering in my ears, I crumple to the floor and let out a cry as another realization hits—the one that might break me for good. “No, no, no. My parents didn’t know. They couldn’t have known.” I cry out, shaking. “My adoptive parents were good people.” I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth. “Ed and Sharon were good people!” I repeat in a howl, barely recognizing my own voice. They were, right? But they lied and said I was adopted in New York. They must’ve known something, otherwise, why would they lie? Or were they just lied to?

Pieces of information pelt my mind, one by one, each more heinous than the last. I plead with my brain to stop, but it won’t.

Bo had a New York address for a while, which means he could’ve known my father. Which means they could’ve arranged the adoption under the table.

“And why were Bo and Lily giving me away when they’re not even my blood relatives?” I shriek, balling my fists. And why wouldanyonedo that? What did it do to my poor mother? “And who the hell is my biological father?”

The rage—I think it’s rage, I’m not sure—consuming me is almost unbearable. There’s fire rushing through my veins, burning my skin, and making my body tremble.

I’m terrified to know anymore. I simply can’t. And this is why I ended things with Owen.

It’sthis.

The part of my life where I fear whatever comes next will make me never want to live in my own skin again. The part I can never escape.

24

The Tension

It’sbeenoneweekand two days since Owen and I stopped seeing each other. Although he’s helped me with the house, we’ve mostly avoided each other because it’s easier that way. I decided not to tell Dakota about him and me because now, there’s nothing to tell.

The sun peeks over the mountain tops, which I see from the primary bathroom’s new big, beautiful window. It was added yesterday, along with new fixtures, faucets, and a fresh coat of paint.

“Hello, Ms. Dawson.” It’s Mary Louise’s voice echoing from the bedroom, and I fight off an eye roll.

“In the bathroom,” I call out.

She comes through the door with a breeze of strong perfume carrying a basket of sandwiches. “Oh, my stars!” she cries out, looking around with a dropped jaw. “This place is pretty as a peach.”

“Thanks, Mary Louise.”

“I brought you and the crew Dough ’n Mo sandwiches today. I know you’re all putting in long hours.” She sets the basket down on the new white and gray streaked quartz countertop.

“Thank you—we love Dough ’n Mo.” I stare at the sandwiches, wanting to eat one right now. “You are so thoughtful, and believe me, this is the best gift we could’ve received today.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She rubs her gloved hands together. “Bill and I just wanted to express our appreciation for what you’re doing for this town. He’s the commissioner, as you know, and he’s thrilled about all this. And… to apologize. I wasn’t very nice to you on the phone when you told me you were going to restore all this. I’m sure sorry about that, and I was wrong. This was a wonderful decision.”

“It’s okay, Mary Louise. You were disappointed, but I’m so glad to hear you’re on board now.” Her apology means a lot, and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe because it’s completely unexpected—she doesn’t seem like the type to apologize, and I always appreciate people who surprise me. I’ve met Bill once, and he seems like a decent guy. He’s not nearly as divisive as his wife, but not nearly as kind as his son.

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