Snagging Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises from the shelf, I decide to test my theory. I skip to page 55 and find a scratch-and-sniff sticker featuring an illustration of a pickle with googly eyes. To amuse myself further, I scrape my nail against the sticker and catch a whiff of its lingering scent. I toss the book onto the floor and page through more novels, finding more of the same. Some remain stiff with newness, and the binding crackles with the turn of every page.

  I glance at the pile I’ve made on the floor, dumbfounded. While Diane may have read the books when she was younger, I don’t understand the need to display new copies. It shouldn’t surprise me that I don’t understand her actions because I never did.

  After slugging back the rest of the whiskey, I sit cross-legged on the carpet and grab the first photo album. Henry settles in next to me, resting his chin on my leg. I’ve never appreciated his comfort more as I stroke his fur with one hand and page through the album with the other.

  I haven’t seen any of these pictures since Diane first brought them home from the pharmacy on Main Street, where she always had them printed. I grit my teeth as I study the first set of photographs taken when I would’ve been 9 or 10. It’s painful to witness the sad little girl posing for the camera with a forced smile edged against her lips. Her brown eyes are vacant and would remain that way until she graduated high school and escaped her personal hell.

  I sat on my bed in each picture, hugging an oversized stuffed mouse made with a fuzzy pink material and buttons for eyes. I don’t remember receiving it as a gift or anything. I slept with it for many years until one day, when it mysteriously disappeared. I always suspected Diane threw it because she decided I was too old for stuffed animals. Although it was homemade, I don’t know where it came from. Diane never sewed anything that I know of.

  The colorful quilt covering my bed was always soft when pressed against my skin and retained a hint of my favorite bubble bath’s bubblegum scent. Looking at it now, I realize the quilt was also handmade. It was in pristine condition, so probably not old enough to have been Diane’s. Since my grandparents died before I was born, maybe it was something she bought from a fundraiser or a church bazaar.

  I fail to grasp the reason to capture this moment or any other moment. I was homeschooled until the sixth grade, and we didn’t go on family vacations. The only friend I had before high school was Rocco. His dad once took a picture of us together, but Rocco kept it in his room.

  Diane was an only child, and my dad was estranged from his two brothers. They never mentioned anyone in their extended families—aunts, uncles, or cousins. I never posed for pictures with either of my parents. I can’t recall a single photo of the three of us together.

  Diane was a devout Baptist, but we didn’t go to church. We had our own hour of worship on Sundays, followed by several hours of bible study.

  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a picture of myself at any age younger than the Polaroid from my dad. Where are the photographs from Arizona? Even though my parents were untraditional and the opposite of nurturing, wouldn’t someone have taken pictures of me as a baby?

  I skim through the rest of the photographs, uninterested in witnessing more depressing pictures of myself. Although I suppose at some point I’ll have to look through them again if I want to do a thorough job. Determined to find evidence of my life before moving to Iowa, I reach for the oldest-looking album on the shelf. Its rust-colored spine, cracked and crumbling at the edges, features an embossed number too faint to be sure of the date. I can say with certainty it’s 1970-something and nothing I’ve ever seen until now.

  The very first photograph takes my breath away. The youngest, most animated versions of my parents I’ve ever laid eyes on stand on the edge of a pier in an awkward embrace, their broad smiles all but splitting their faces. Diane’s engorged stomach makes it difficult for my dad to put his arms all the way around her. They’re both as plain-looking as I’ve always remembered, with average looks that wouldn’t get noticed in a crowd.

  They’re clearly not in Arizona, although they could’ve been on a road trip or lived somewhere else before I was born. Their casual denim and polyester outfits suggest it’s just another day, and they hadn’t packed for a vacation.

  When I remove the photograph from the plastic sleeve to study it closer, another photograph drops into my lap: a picture of a newborn.

  I drop the photo of my parents to study the newborn a little closer. The dark-haired baby lays on what appears to be a quilted bed. Bundled in a pink blanket with a pink bow on her head, it’s fair to assume the infant is female. Her eyes are closed, and her tiny pink lips are parted either mid-yawn or in a deep sleep.

  My heart skips when I notice the small, clover-shaped birthmark above the newborn’s right eyelid. It matches the one on the brunette girl in the Polaroid.

  I turn the photograph over to see my mother wrote, “Our sweet Josephine.”

  Whiskey churns through my gut.

  Who is this girl? If she’s Josephine, then who the hell am I?

  The only person who can give me definitive answers may be dying. Still, there’s one other person who could possibly add helpful input.

  With the baby picture and Polaroid in hand, I tuck Henry into his kennel and head over to Rocco’s house. I’ll have to put my complicated feelings for him aside long enough to see if he knows anything about the other girl.

  No one answers when I knock on the front door. The sound of canned laughter drifts through one of the cracked windows at my side, accompanied by the telling flicker of lights. Deciding he’s watching TV, I knock a little harder a second time. The door creaks open.

  Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I take cautious steps inside, prepared to be bombarded with nostalgia. To my surprise, the interior is completely remodeled. The wall separating the kitchen and dining room has been removed and replaced with a walnut beam. Nonna’s pink curtains, cracked linoleum, and floral wallpaper are gone. Roman shades, engineered walnut flooring, and a neutral coat of paint create a modern vibe. A quick glance into the kitchen reveals stainless steel appliances, handsome walnut cabinets, and herringbone tiled flooring.

  “Rocco?” I call out, heading toward the living room where his grandmother kept the television.

  “No!” a man hollers from down the hallway, stopping me dead in my tracks. “No! I won’t let you!”

  It’s Rocco. He must be having a nightmare.

  After witnessing some horrors throughout my career, I have become familiar with the side effects of PTSD. It’s one of the reasons I brought Henry home. Considering the statistics involving veterans who suffer from the same condition, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that’s what’s taking place.

  If I wake him, he’ll more than likely be embarrassed. Maybe even angry. If I sneak back outside, he’ll never know I was here—unless he’s installed a security system since moving in. Going with Option B, I spin back to the front door.

  I come face-to-face with a skeleton with beady, protruding eyes and snow-white hair.

  It reaches for me.

  I drop the photos and scream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PRESENT DAY

  Josephine

  Once my initial shock subsides and my heart slows to its usual pace, I realize it’s most definitely not a zombie standing in my way. It’s Rocco’s grandmother. The once pudgy woman has become little more than a pile of flesh and bones. The way her dark eyes and broad cheeks have sunken in, I can’t exactly blame myself for mistaking her as a creature of the night. Long strands of white hair hang past bony shoulders visible beneath a thin white nightgown several sizes too large.

  Eyes stinging with emotion, I all at once remember the way her entire face would light with one of her rare smiles. Although strict, she showed me more love and compassion than my parents combined.

  “Nonna,” I say, slapping my hand over my chest. “I’m so sorry. You scared me.”

  “Tu sei quella ragazza,” she whispers in a gravelly voice.

  I never understood much of what Nonna said as a girl, but I think she’s trying to place me since I believe “tu sei” roughly translates to “you are.” I picked up some Italian from Rocco over time.

  “It’s me, Nonna,” I say with a friendly smile. “It’s Josephine.”

  “Nonna!” Rocco calls out from the hallway. “Nonna, what’s wrong?”

  “She’s okay,” I assure him as he enters the room.

  Warmth drains from my face when I catch his expression. Veins bulging from his neck, lips snarled, eyes dark as night, he’s ready to tear someone apart. With his next shuttering breath, the anger disappears, and he’s throwing me a crooked smirk. “Jo?”

  Realizing he’s wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs, I quickly avert my gaze. In the quick glance I’m afforded of his bare chest, impressively defined with muscle, you’d think I’d plummeted into an active volcano. Heat burns everywhere. Damn him for still being so attractive.

  He snags a blanket from the back of a leather recliner and spreads it over his grandmother’s slender shoulders. I’m aware he’s taller than the average man. Still, the way he towers over her like a giant adds to my embarrassment of allowing a frail old woman to frighten me half to death.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks me, his sleepy voice muddled with confusion.

  “Sorry I woke you. I came over to ask about the Polaroid my dad gave you. The front door was open—I thought maybe you were watching TV. Nonna caught me by surprise.”

  “She gets a little confused at night,” he explains, rubbing a hand across her bony back. “The TV seems to soothe her.” He crouches down to her eye level. “Let’s get you back in bed, Nonna.” After gently steering her toward the hallway, he calls over his shoulder, “There’s beer in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  My hands tremble as I collect the photographs from the floor before heading to the refrigerator and plucking a bottled beer from the glass shelf. Instead of closing the door, I pause to study its contents. Milk, orange juice, fresh fruits and vegetables, salmon, yogurt, eggs—he’s still the same health nut he became in high school while we were dating. He’d put on a little weight when he first hit puberty and was convinced he needed to eat something other than his grandmother’s Italian dishes, heavy on sugars and carbs. I smile when remembering how he’d sneak several bites of my mint chocolate malts whenever we went to Hickory Park for barbecue.

  “Still hungry?” he calls out behind me with a teasing laugh. “Help yourself to whatever looks good. Grab me a beer, too.”

  Embarrassed for getting caught snooping, I quickly add another bottle to my grip and turn to him with my chin ducked low. I’m relieved to discover he’s thrown on a pair of cotton shorts with the same gray ARMY t-shirt from earlier.

  “I was just admiring your continued commitment to healthy food,” I tell him. “I’m on the road a lot, so my condo’s fridge is usually pretty bare except for a few takeout boxes.”

  He quirks a brow. “No husband or kids to feed?”

  “It’s just me and Henry. I don’t exactly have time for a family.”

  “You sound like Papá,” he grumbles, swiping both beer bottles from my hand. “It has nothing to do with your career, Jo. It’s about the choices you make.” He removes the tops on each bottle and hands one back to me. With a tilt of his head, inviting me to follow, he moves into the living room. “I know a few detectives, and they’re all married with kids.”

  “What about your choices?” I challenge with a slight sneer, scurrying to catch up with him. He always assumed he knew what was best for me, and he was usually right. Still, this judgment feels hypocritical, considering he isn’t wearing a wedding band. “Although I seriously love what you’ve done with this place, it’s clearly designed to be a bachelor pad. Why haven’t you settled down?”

  “Lacy curtains and ancient flooring weren’t going to do well in today’s market.” He settles into the leather couch facing the matching recliner before taking a long drink of his beer, eyes directed at the ceiling. I’m far too interested in watching his long throat flex with each swallow. Why couldn’t he have aged into one of those men with a thin ring of hair and a healthy gut? Lowering the bottle, his gaze rolls back to mine. “I fixed it up so it’ll sell when Nonna’s gone.”

  I perch on the other end of the couch and take a tentative sip of the dark beer, wishing it was whiskey. Maybe then my shoulders would loosen a little. “Is she unwell?”

  He lifts one shoulder. “Old age. The day nurse I hired thinks maybe she’s developing the start of dementia.”

  “I’m so sorry, Roc.”

  “Shit happens. We all die eventually.” He tips his beer back for another drink. “I’ll gladly take every extra day I’m given.”

  “What do you do with yourself now that you’re retired?”

  “I bought a gym down by campus with an old buddy…decided I better find something to keep me busy while I’m here. Remember Chris Anderson?”

  “Of course,” I answer with a warm smile. “Chris was always a good guy.” Once Rocco and I started dating, Chris became a loyal friend of mine as well. Sadness slithers through my belly when I realize I haven’t seen Chris in decades.

  “He served in the Marine Corps. We figured it’s a good way to keep an eye on some of the students…play big brother to those needing some direction.”

  I flash him another smile from behind my raised bottle. “You have that role down pat.” I take a long sip, afraid of whatever nostalgia I’ll see reflected in his gaze if I look his way. “What else are you up to? Seeing anyone?”

  “There was only one woman I was serious about after you,” he offers with a stony expression. “It started up a few months after I moved back. She had a kid from a prior relationship. I grew to love her little girl, but things got complicated, and they moved away.”

  “That sucks,” I say when noticing his tense expression and hunched shoulders.

  “It was a long time ago.” He gives a minuscule head shake before slugging down the rest of his beer. I wait for him to elaborate more about this ex-girlfriend when he sets the empty bottle on the coffee table. Instead, he asks, “What were you saying about a Polaroid?”

  “That’s what was inside the envelope my dad asked you to give me.” I pass the Polaroid to him. “Do you recognize the brunette girl?”

  Squinting at the photograph in his hands, he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you ever remember seeing me with blond hair when we were young?”

  “The first time I met you.” He nods with certainty before catching my perplexed expression. “You don’t remember being a blonde back then?”

  “No. I was always—” I stop with a gasp when something occurs to me. “Oh my god. The cleansing shampoo!”

  Rocco’s brows scrunch together. “What?”

  “Diane used to wash my hair every couple of months with something she called a ‘cleansing shampoo.’ She said it stripped the filth from my hair. I thought it was weird because I never actually got dirty, but never questioned it. It smelled funny and darkened the sink when she rinsed my hair. I’m just realizing now that smell was ammonia. It’s what they put in hair dye to open hair cuticles.”

  “Why would your mom dye your hair when you were young?”

  I tilt my head. “Seriously? I think we’re beyond questioning my parents’ actions.”

  “Good point.”

  I gesture to the photo. “Turn it around.”

  “I’m sorry?” he reads aloud before holding the photograph away. “What’s that about?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” I hand him the newborn photograph. “This was in an album I’ve never seen before, stuck behind a picture of my parents when Diane was pregnant. I should add that I’ve never seen a picture of myself before the age of seven or eight until this Polaroid, and I’m almost positive that baby isn’t me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The birthmark above her right eye. The brown-haired girl in the Polaroid has the exact same one.”

  He glances away from the picture to throw me a friendly grin. “That’s fast work, detective. Who do you think she is?”

  “Turn it over.” I tip my beer back, guzzling what’s left as he reads Diane’s inscription.

  “What the hell is this?” Rocco demands. “What do you think your dad was trying to apologize for?”

  “At first, I thought maybe he had an affair, and that girl was my sister.” I take the photographs from him, studying the two little girls with a shake of my head. They may as well both be complete strangers. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”

  Grumbling something under his breath, Rocco takes my empty bottle and sets it next to his. I’m ready to ask what he’s doing until he scoots in closer and grips my knees in his hands, shocking me to my core. Familiarity overwhelms me, rattling my last shred of confidence. Why does he still have this effect on me?

  “We’ve always suspected your parents were hiding a pretty big secret, Jo. It drove Papá insane when he couldn’t find a bulletproof way to help you. Nonna, too. She didn’t like your parents the minute you arrived.” I despise the sympathetic look he’s projecting when he continues. “I can’t tell you how many times I talked Papá out of calling social services. Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize they probably wouldn’t have given his reports the time of day anyway. Aside from the fact that your parents wouldn’t let you leave the house the first few years after you moved here, what could he have done to prove something wasn’t right?”

  “He could’ve demanded they ask for a DNA test from my parents,” I huff humorlessly. “Hiding me from the public eye for all those years, secretly dyeing my hair, failing to produce any evidence of my life before we moved here…it all points to one thing, Roc.” Tears prick my eyes when I confess the truth. “I think I was kidnapped.”