Please don’t let it be a love letter.

  “Your dad asked me to pass this along to you after he’s gone,” he explains. “I don’t have any idea what’s inside, but I thought maybe you’d like to take it home with you.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “In case we don’t ever see each other again.”

  He nudges the sealed envelope inside my hand and presses a firm, lingering kiss against my forehead. I subtly breathe in his scent, committing it to memory. A turbulent rush of tears stings my eyes as he bends to rub Henry’s head before disappearing inside, presumably to retrieve the clean pasta dish.

  Legs weak, I lower to the ground beside Henry and bury my face inside his thick gray coat spotted with black, letting the fur absorb my tears.

  I’ve always wondered if Rocco Giordano could’ve been my soul mate, if I were to believe in that kind of thing. It’s a moot point since I can’t afford to let myself feel vulnerable around anyone anyway. My future as a worthwhile detective is already under question.

  Blinking back lingering tears, I sit upright and rip open the envelope. There’s a Polaroid inside and nothing else. Odd.

  In the faded photograph, two little girls look straight at the camera, hands held between them. One of the girls is blonde, while the other one is brunette. There’s a slight difference in their height, probably because the brunette appears to be a year or two older. Both have beautiful chocolate brown eyes, and their facial features are well-balanced, possibly due to a mix of European ancestries. They wear identical sundresses in a green and white print, with their hair styled in matching French braids.

  At first, I think I'm imagining things when I see my reflection in the blonde, as it's getting darker and I’ve started using reading glasses. Then I squint and hold the Polaroid a little farther away to confirm it’s true. But that can’t be right—I was a brunette throughout my childhood. My journey to becoming a blonde was gradual, starting when I left home and followed the 1990s trend of chunky highlights.

  I don’t recognize the brunette.

  I flip the picture around, expecting to find a date or the girls’ names.

  Written in shaky, block-style handwriting I recognize as my dad’s are the words, “I’M SORRY.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  BEFORE

  Rocco

  Anew family is moving into the house next door. I drag a bar stool to our kitchen window and watch closely as a big white truck parks in the driveway of the empty house. I prayed in the night for them to have a son my age. Our neighborhood is filled with old people like Nonna who only want to play stupid card games.

  There are only so many ways I can play G.I. Joe by myself. Nonna gets sad when I leave her home alone for too long, so I don’t really have many friends. The few I have usually only hang out with me at school because they live too far away from our house to ride our bikes. Nonna doesn’t have a license, and their parents are either busy with their other kids or work weird hours. Every now and then, when I get invited to a birthday party, my friend’s mom or dad will give me a ride.

  I hold my breath when the truck’s passenger door opens. A little blonde girl in white jeans and a rainbow sweater darts inside the house through the front door. She runs so fast that I barely see her face. It’s not long enough to guess her age. Letting the air out of my cheeks before holding my breath again, I press my nose against the window and wait for a boy—or two—to exit behind her. I wouldn’t really care if they weren’t my age. I’d even settle for a teenager.

  Nonna has frilly junk all over the house. The hand soap she buys smells like roses. Her towels are pink. The dishes we eat on are covered in a yellow flower print. Sometimes I walk into the bathroom to see her underwear drying on the shower rod. I’d give up my Jabba the Hutt lunchbox for a chance to hang out with any other boy for more than a handful of hours every week.

  Disappointment settles in my bones when a mom and a dad are the only others to leave the truck.

  How dumb.

  “What are you doing?” Nonna asks in thick Italian. “It’s not polite to spy on others.”

  “I’m not,” I reply in English, hopping down from the kitchen stool. “I’m watching for rain. It’s cloudy out.”

  Nonna has been in the States since I was born and still refuses to speak English. She moved here permanently from Bologna after my mamma died giving birth to me, and Papá had to return to his post in Germany. Most of the time, it’s just the two of us.

  Nonna occasionally cooks at my aunt’s Italian restaurant in downtown Ames, where my momma worked before I was born. In the summertime, I sometimes go with her to bus tables and hang out with my older cousins.

  I know it bothers Tita when Nonna won’t communicate in English with the other employees because I’ve heard her yelling at Nonna a bunch of times about it. I don’t understand why she’s too stubborn to learn the language. I keep hoping that if I refuse to speak to her in Italian, she’ll eventually learn something.

  Nonna shuffles over to my spot at the window and presses her hands against her hips. She’s the kind of grandmother who’s really short, looks squishy, and gives suffocating hugs. Since I never got to meet my mamma, my connection with Nonna is extra special. She pretty much raised me by herself since Papá has only been home a few months since my fourth birthday. The only time I’m actually glad she doesn’t speak English is when she calls me “her baby boy” in public. How embarrassing.

  “That man has shifty eyes,” she reports, stopping to give a disapproving click of her tongue. “And the woman…she looks hard. Not friendly. I do not think I like them.”

  “I thought you said it’s rude to spy on others,” I remind her, laughing when she merely rolls her eyes and gives another sharp click of her tongue. I’ll probably never know if she understands half of what I say.

  “You go over there, make friends with that girl,” Nonna instructs me. “I see her there in the backyard. She does not look happy to be here. Invite her over for some of my cannoli.”

  “No way,” I reply. “She’s a girl.” When I click my tongue and roll my eyes, Nonna gives me a stern look. I guess she’s the only one who can get by with that attitude in this house.

  “Okay, fine,” I grumble, thinking of all the ways my life is totally unfair. Why couldn’t my parents have had other kids before my momma died? Why can’t Nonna and I move to Germany with Papá? Nonna says it’s because Papá has a very important job in the military and doesn’t have time for us, but whatever. It’s not like I’m a baby and need a lot of attention. It’d just be nice to see him more than a couple of times every year. I’m the only kid in my class who doesn’t have either a mom or a dad at home. Some older kids like to tease me for being an orphan, even though it technically isn’t true.

  I take as much time as possible before heading outside, stopping to tie and retie my sneakers, straightening the rug the way Nonna likes, and studying the creaky door as I move it back and forth like I’m wondering the best way to fix it.

  I’m not shy. Not really. I talk to the other third graders just fine. So I don’t really know why I don’t want to go over to meet the girl, except I don’t. I didn’t even get a good look at her. What if she’s like that one guy in The Goonies who has a messed-up face and needs to be chained to the wall? Honestly, I never watched the rest of that movie after that scene. I figured it was way too scary for someone my age.

  Grabbing my basketball from a shelf in the garage, I lob a few shots at the hoop on wheels Papá gave me on his last visit home. I usually only play basketball when forced at school in phy-ed class. I hate the sport and can’t ever get the ball to land anywhere near the net. Plus, I think my Papá bought a hoop made for babies because I can almost touch the bottom of the net. It’s still better than going over to meet the new girl. I’d rather have to complete the Presidential Fitness Test ten times in a row than go over there.

  I keep an eye on the house next door, watching the mom and dad move boxes into the house for what must be an eternity. The girl doesn’t come outside again. I guess she’s one of those spoiled types, like Sara Duncan at school. Whenever it’s her turn to do something in the classroom, she pretends to be sick or bribes one of the other kids with candy so they’ll do it for her.

  I hate this girl already.

  Before long, the sun sinks behind the big maple tree above me, and the parents seem to have the truck completely unloaded. Right when I’m ready to give up and head inside, I hear whimpering from their backyard. Figuring they brought a dog that I somehow missed seeing them take out of the truck, I head over to the fence between our backyards. There’s a hole at the far end of the wall. It’s kind of hidden by one of our wild bushes, so I’m not sure anyone else knows it’s there. I once used it to spy on the last neighbor lady while she was sunbathing. After the gross things I saw, you’d think I’d know better than to look through that hole again, but I guess I don’t.

  The new girl sits on the ground with her arms wrapped around her bony legs, long yellow hair spread around her knees like a curtain. She’s pretty small, so I think she’s really young—like preschool young. After a few seconds, I realize the whimpering sound is coming from her. She’s crying.

  Oh great. Nonna will probably make me volunteer to babysit the little brat.

  “Hi,” I call out to her. “I’m Rocco. I live next door.”

  Her head jerks up. When her big brown eyes lock on mine I decide she’s pretty cute for a kid her age. Maybe we could hang out sometime. She could be the little sister my parents couldn’t give me. I suppose it would be better than hanging out with Nonna all the time.

  The girl stares back at me, her face blank. What if she speaks Italian, like Nonna?

  I attempt to introduce myself again, this time in Italian. She only blinks back. Maybe she’s deaf.

  “What’s your name?” I yell, switching back to English.

  She blinks slow and hard until fresh tears spill down her thin cheeks. She’s tiny, like a hummingbird.

  “It’s okay to be sad,” I say. “I would be sad, too, if my Nonna made me move to a different house. You can come hang out with me and Nonna sometime if you’re lonely. Her English isn’t the best, but she’s nice and she wants you to come try her cannolis. She moved here from Italy when I was a baby, and she’s the best cook around. Maybe you can come join us for dinner sometime.”

  The girl remains silent. Maybe she’s embarrassed that I saw her cry. Or maybe she’s just really, really shy, and her parents taught her about Stranger Danger. I guess it would be fair because she doesn’t know me.

  Giving up, I throw her a little wave. “Great talking to you. Guess I’ll see you around.”

  As I round back to the front of the yard, the parents are huddled on their front doorstep, whispering back and forth in sharp voices like they’re mad about something.

  The man is tall with jet black hair, like my Papá, and wears a pair of windbreaker pants with a ratty old sweater. His eyeglasses have clear frames with thick lenses and his hair is neatly parted down one side. I can picture him wanting to throw a ball around the backyard. What if he wishes he had a son? Maybe he could be a father figure to me while Papá is away.

  The woman is nearly as tall as the man and almost sick-looking skinny with curly brown hair the color of tree bark. She wears a dress printed with rusty-colored flowers that’s really ugly. Red circles around her dark eyes make them puffy like Tita’s get whenever she talks about my momma.

  They stop talking when they catch me staring.

  I clear my throat. “Hello, ma’am.” I nod at the dad. “Sir. My name’s Rocco. I live right next door with my grandma.”

  Behind his glasses, the dad’s green eyes flash bright with kindness. “Hello, Rocco. It’s nice to meet you, son.”

  “Would it be okay if your daughter came over to my house? My Nonna made cannolis and⁠—”

  “She’s not our daughter,” the woman snaps at me, her eyes suddenly as dark as the sky gets in the middle of the night.

  Whoa. Maybe they aren’t as nice as I thought.

  Shuffling back a little, I point at the fence. “Then who is she?”

  The dad, or whoever he is, grabs the woman’s arm and leans in to whisper something into her ear. I glance at our house, hoping Nonna’s watching out the window. Maybe she’d decide to come over and save me from whatever is going on with these weird people. Although the light over our stove is on, the rest of the kitchen looks empty. Dang it.

  Finally, the woman jerks away from him and shuffles into their house, walking funny, like she’s got a hitch in her side. I let out a shaking breath.

  What was that about?

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I tell the man. “I don’t know what I said⁠—”

  “It’s been a long day,” he explains with what Nonna calls “a plastic smile" spread over his lips. She says people do that because it’s expected, not because they’re nice. “My wife is just upset with our daughter after the long ride here. It was good meeting you, Rocco. Have a nice night.”

  I quickly turn around and run back home, only glancing at the fence. I don't plan to start another conversation with the adults anytime soon. That doesn't mean I can't keep trying to get to know the little girl. Nonna is right, she doesn't seem happy. Maybe I can be her friend.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  Josephine

  After Rocco leaves me with the envelope, I grab my readers from my duffel bag and sit at my parent’s ancient oak table in the dining room. With Henry curled up at my feet, I continue to thoroughly study the Polaroid of myself with different colored hair, standing beside a girl I don’t recognize. Was the girl a cousin? A friend? The only identifying mark I’m able to find on her is a small birthmark above her right eyelid, shaped like a clover without a stem. It’s pretty weak, especially as some kids outgrow birthmarks with time, but it could be something to work with.

  For someone who doesn’t fully comprehend the science behind graphology, I spend far too much time examining my dad’s diminished handwriting on the back. What could he possibly be sorry about? Why did he want me to have the picture after he died? Did he have an affair with another woman? Was the girl a secret he kept from my mother? Why don’t I remember her?

  The thing bothering me the most is what reason would my mother have to bleach my hair at such a young age? She didn’t believe in spending money on frivolous things. She wore her hair naturally curly and cut it herself on the first Sunday of every month. I remember it all too well because she’d make me stand behind her with a handheld mirror the entire time. More importantly, why am I a brunette in every other photograph I’ve seen of myself as a child?

  Any memories I retained before the age of seven or eight have dissolved with time. My parents said we lived in their home state of Arizona before moving to Iowa, but I’ve never been able to recall our home before coming here. I don't have any general visions stored away of the desert. The only glimmer of recollections I’ve retrieved that could possibly have happened before coming to Iowa are associated with voices, smells, or a fleeting sensation. Certainly nothing that makes any sense. My clearest, unshakable memories begin several years after we relocated to Iowa.

  My mother passed away long before I fully understood the gravity of the situation. It was before I started my training at the police academy and began cataloging the important questions that needed answers. As I watched her take her last breath, I was filled with regret for not confronting her earlier. The regret was so consuming that I didn't feel any sadness when she passed away.

  My dad became withdrawn after her death. And now the doctors tell me he’s severely incapacitated after a stroke that likely caused irreversible brain damage.

  I alternate between wanting to scream and laugh myself into hysterics. My childhood was shrouded with countless secrets and unsolved mysteries. What’s one more?

  My head’s spinning by the time I decide I’ve analyzed the photograph to death. Fortunately, Dad still keeps the cupboard above the refrigerator well stocked with alcohol. I pour myself a short glass of whiskey on ice and head into the living room, deciding it’s time to let my professional instincts take over. I scan the room, assessing it like a crime scene.

  Not much of anything appears to have changed since I left home at the age of eighteen. Although the house had been remodeled around that time, the deep red accent wall and gold curtains adorned with flowers the same red as the wall show their age. Considering it was a pet-free home, I’m not exactly surprised to discover the nylon berber carpet shows almost no sign of wear. The garish couch and matching armchair, a shade lighter than the curtains, don’t appear to have been used much either.

  My dad’s 1980s recliner is the only piece of furniture showing signs of use. The rose-colored arms and headrest have become threadbare with regular use. At some point, he replaced the old console television with a thick flatscreen that’s now 10-15 years outdated.

  Beneath a metal cross and a portrait of a caucasian Jesus, my mother’s hideous collection of porcelain clowns still occupies an entire curio cabinet in the corner. Dad must’ve instructed the cleaning staff not to bother with them as the shelves are covered in thick dust. It wouldn’t be for sentimental reasons because that’s not an emotion my dad ever displayed, so it must’ve been to save on the cleaners’ time.

  The set of red-spined encyclopedia books Dad sold before we moved here fills an entire side of the built-in bookcases surrounding the wood-burning fireplace. Although the brick firebox is stained with soot, the cubby for firewood is empty. My mother loved the ambiance of a fire on a cold winter night. Dad hated the inconvenience of buying chopped wood and bringing it home. I don’t imagine he ever started a fire again after Diane died.

  Photo albums and classic novels fill the remaining built-in shelves. I bet if I were to thumb through each book, there’d still be a loose sticker on wax paper jammed next to page 55 of every one. I conducted a test around the time I was thirteen, convinced my parents had never read a single book on that shelf and Diane had only purchased them for show. I found it to be peculiar, considering we rarely had company.