Page 141 of One More Secret

Even if Grace and Craig allow me into my…their daughter’s life, I’ll never get to hear her call me Mommy. She won’t remember who I am.

Footfalls pad into the room. I glance toward the door. Both Bailey and Butterscotch have tracked me down. Butterscotch’s round black eyes are questioning. Bailey jumps her paws onto the bed.

I sniff and wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I guess you two would love to go for a W-A-L-K.”

But before I can take them for a walk, there’s one thing I need to do first.

I retrieve the wooden box with the lotus flower carved on it from downstairs. The dogs follow me. I put the box on the bed, go to the closet, and remove the shoebox I stashed there when I moved into the house.

I transfer the contents to the wooden box and hide it in the secret space in the other bedroom. The last thing I want is for anyone to find the contents of the box, the clues to my true identity.

* * *

Bailey,Butterscotch, and I walk along the sidewalk. I didn’t bother with Bailey’sService Dog in Trainingvest. This will be playtime for her.

The late June temperature is warmer than I was expecting, with puffy clouds dotting the blue sky. We turn down the street that leads to the off-leash park. Violet told me the other day she takes Sophie to the playground near there.

“We’ll play ball in a few minutes,” I tell the two dogs. “I want to check something first.”

Several young kids are playing on the equipment when we arrive. I scan the area for signs of Violet and Sophie. I knew the chances of them being here was small, but that doesn’t stop the tendrils of disappointment from spreading through me.

She wasn’t at yoga last week.

Or the time before that.

She told Shania she was sick, but when I texted Violet, she told me she was too busy to attend yoga. I suggested we get together for coffee, and she agreed to the idea, but then canceled at the last minute.

Why can’t I shake the feeling something’s wrong?

No. I’m just being paranoid. After everything that happened to me, I’m programmed to expect the worse. Violet’s fine. She has to be fine.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that, I have a hard time convincing myself it’s true.

We head to the dog park, and I toss the balls for Bailey and Butterscotch to fetch. My arm is sore by the time they grow bored of the game. I click the leashes onto their collars. “We’re going home, but we’re walking the long way.”

We arrive at Violet’s house. Even though it’s the middle of the day, her living room curtains are drawn. I walk along the path and knock softly on the door. I don’t want to wake Sophie if she’s napping.

No one answers the door. I text Violet that I’m here and knock again, but this time a little louder. Still nothing.

I look up at the second-floor windows. There’s no indication anyone is home. Maybe Violet is visiting her parents in Portland.

I release a long, unsteady breath, unable to chase away the feeling something’s not right.Stop being so paranoid. It’s like with the tape on the back door. It probably came unstuck. The tape is old, the glue not as sticky as it once was. No one actually broke in.I panicked over nothing.

I give Violet’s home one more concerned glance. “Okay, you two,” I say to the dogs, “let’s go home.”

56

ANGELIQUE

June 1943

France

In the monthsince I learned Johann’s sister is deaf, an unlikely friendship has sprouted between Johann and me, delicate as a new shoot.

But it’s not a friendship firmly rooted in trust.

For all he knows, I could be an informant, and he would be right. But I’m not an informant for the Gestapo, and none of what he told me is of interest to Baker Street.

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