“I have to travel out of town for a day or two. I was hoping you could keep an eye on Henry until I return. He can stay at my dad’s if you and Nonna don’t want him underfoot. He’s house-trained and prefers the comfort of his kennel at night if he can’t be in a bed. I’d be grateful if you could take him for a walk or two and throw the ball around the yard like last night.”

  His dark brown eyes harden with suspicion. “Where are you going?”

  “Baltimore. While I was visiting my dad this afternoon, my paternal grandfather called. It turns out he’s not dead, and my parents are not from Arizona. I’m going to visit him to see what else he may know that my so-called parents neglected to tell me. I hope to track down my dad’s two brothers, too.”

  “That’s a lot to process.” With a thoughtful expression, he rubs his hand over his chest. “When does your flight leave?”

  “In four and a half hours. I figured I’d speak with you about Henry first to ensure I don’t have to look into other arrangements before I start re-packing.”

  “That gives me plenty of time to make a few calls, pack a bag, and shower.”

  With a cackling laugh, I give a firm shake of my head. “You’re not coming with me, Roc.”

  One of his eyebrows lifts. “Give me one good reason.”

  “Henry. Nonna. Your gym.” I tick off the reasons with one hand raised between us, scowling when I release the fourth finger. “And I’m a private person. I need to do this alone.”

  He mocks me with a countdown of his fingers. “Number one, Chris and his wife adore dogs, and their black lab would love to help Henry run off some of that energy. Two, Nonna’s in-home nurse has stayed overnight at least a dozen times by now. As for the gym, I’m not scheduled to cover another shift until next week.”

  Dropping his hand, his expression softens. “As for the fourth thing, I honestly don’t care what kind of excuse you come up with because I saw how much this affected you last night when you considered the kidnapping angle. I know you, Jo. Since you’re not involved with anyone, I’m willing to bet I know you better than anyone else. If you’re going to be stubborn and pretend you don’t want more of what went on last night, I’ll get a separate room. If you want to be an adult and accept whatever’s happening between us, you can use me to blow off a little steam at night.” Mischief sparks his eyes when he adds, “In any manner you deem fit. Either way, I’m coming along because I know this shit is eating you up inside, and I don’t want you dealing with it on your own when your parents’ other lies surface.”

  I glower back at him while gnashing my teeth together. Based on the resolved look he’s giving me, I suspect he won’t budge, no matter how much I protest.

  And he thinks I’m stubborn.

  A youthful smile cracks his lips when he realizes I won’t put up a fight. “I’ll come over as soon as I’m ready. We’ll drop Henry at the gym on the way to the airport.” He bends down to steal a slow, toe-curling kiss, then he runs back inside. I stare at the open doorway, berating myself for not objecting to his plan.

  You’re not a pushover. Quit acting like one.

  Before I can devise an alternative plan for Henry, Nonna wanders into view. Beneath the sunlight, she isn’t as nefarious-looking as she was in the middle of the night. She’s wearing a blouse beneath a long dress, and her hair is brushed back into a low braid. My heart skips a little when I assume Rocco had to have been the one to style her hair. I doubt many men would take on caring for their elderly grandmother the way he has.

  “Tu sei quella ragazza,” she says with a widening of her eyes. It’s the same thing she’d said to me the night before, only this time, there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her cracked lips. While she may have been suffering from sundowner's before, she appears more cogent in the daylight.

  “I’m Josephine from next door,” I say to her. My smile fades. “Or maybe not. At this point, who knows my real name?”

  “È sepolto nel giardino,” Nonna whispers, glancing over her shoulder before clamping a bony hand over my wrist. She repeats the phrase with urgency, then adds, “Sotto le rose.” Her grip becomes painfully tight.

  With my heart hammering, I commit her Italian words to memory, intending to search for a translation. Why does she seem afraid? Is it the disease messing with her head? I pry her fingers from my wrist and pat her arm.

  “Why don’t we get you settled in front of the TV?” I suggest, leading her back into the living room. Once she’s sitting in the recliner beneath a blanket with a rerun of a game show playing, I consider waiting for Rocco to finish his shower so I can get his take on Nonna’s ramblings. When I hear his deep voice rumbling in conversation, I head back over to let Henry run outside until it’s time to leave.

  The second I’m outside, I retrieve my phone from my back jeans pocket and open the language translator app purchased by my station for everyone in the department. It takes a few tries before the app understands my crude Italian.

  “You’re that girl,” is most likely the first thing she said to me, followed by something about “it” being “buried in the garden” and “beneath the roses.”

  Crippling chills dribble down my back. I only remember Nonna planting herbs in their backyard. As I enter my dad’s driveway, I scan Nonna’s backyard to confirm it’s rose-free. How would she know about something in my parents’ yard? What does she think is buried there? While it could easily be the ramblings of a woman whose mind is fading, nothing seems too far-fetched. I’m not going to ignore a potential lead.

  After grabbing a spade and gloves from the garage, I let Henry join me in the backyard. I’d be a terrible liar if I claimed the mere idea of destroying my dad’s beloved rose bush didn’t fill me with immense pleasure. Even if I were to come up empty-handed, the action of ruining one of the few things he placed on a pedestal instead of his only child could be therapeutic. I was around ten or eleven when he planted it. At the time, he had just started working for a landscaper and was proud of the skills he’d acquired.

  The first stab at the roots of the thriving bush, overflowing with symmetrical pink blossoms, proves to be more satisfying than spending an afternoon at the shooting range. Luckily, Ames has avoided freezing temperatures so far, and the dark soil gives way with ease. I destroy the beautiful plant entirely before continuing to dig deeper. Henry joins in on the fun, digging alongside me with the finesse of a crackhead in need of a fix.

  Before long, however, the joy of the act is all at once replaced with a nagging fear. What am I about to find? My arms turn to rubber as cold sweat springs across my face. What if they buried the real Josephine in the same yard I spent my childhood locked inside?

  Around the time I convince myself to call the local PD and get their forensics involved, the tip of the spade slams into something metal. Too late for that call.

  I’m trembling as I toss the spade aside and lower to my knees. With a gloved hand, I clear the dirt away and let out a surprised gasp when the object is fully unearthed.

  It’s a metal lunchbox featuring Holly Hobbie, a cartoon character wearing a quilted dress and a large bonnet. Holly was beloved by girls at the height of my childhood. Although I didn’t have much for toys, I remember wearing an oversized t-shirt featuring the sweet character. I didn’t know anything about Holly then, but I sometimes pretended she was a real person and we were best friends.

  Henry gives the lunchbox a thorough sniff before wandering off. His disinterest in it gives me hope that I’m not on the cusp of discovering human remains. I lift the box, deciding it must weigh 3-4 pounds as my fingers fumble with the clasp. I’m worried I’ll pass out cold from holding my breath before it finally springs open to reveal a small leather journal.

  “Better than the alternative,” I mutter while inspecting the cover. Slightly yellowed pages and a pristine buck-skin wrap indicate the journal could possibly be decades newer than the 80s lunchbox. It also could’ve merely been well-preserved by the metal box.

  Who did it belong to? Why would they bury it in our yard?

  As I open the cover, suspense balloons through me. The first page features a simple, “this book belongs to” with a blank line underneath.

  “Wouldn’t want to make this too easy,” I huff, turning to the next page. Wide, flourishing cursive fills the lined page, continuing through approximately a third of the journal. Diane's cursive was sharp, and her letters were slanted. I know her handwriting as well as my own because I spent years reading it on the assignments she gave me before they finally enrolled me in public school. My dad wrote in all block letters, like on the back of the Polaroid, and only signed his name in cursive, which was too sloppy to read. So, who wrote in this journal?

  My eyes scan over the first entry.

  I’m creating a record of everything in case something happens to me.

  Someone needs to know the truth.

  Motherhood is everything I dreamed of and more. Watching my sweet baby grow into a happy little girl has been a joy unlike anything I’ve known. She’s smart and beautiful and very thoughtful about others’ feelings. She also makes me laugh every single day with her silly sayings and wild spirit.

  When I was a teenager, I often babysat for a family that lived two blocks away. The husband was a doctor, and the wife stayed home with the kids, making it necessary to hire me only when the parents went on dates or the mom had appointments. Their two little girls were so sweet and polite that I never once yelled at them. I saw how much they loved their mother and hoped I would have daughters just like them one day.

  What no one told me, what I never understood as a teenage girl, was the way a mother’s heart swelled with love the first time she held her child in her arms or the first time a mother’s toddler smiled up at her when saying, “I love you mommy.” I love this sweet daughter of mine more than anything in the world—more than I love myself.

  That’s why it’s so hard to stay, even though I love him with all of my heart. I don’t think my sweet girl is safe when he’s around. If he ever hurt her, I’d simply die.

  The reason I say this is because I have evidence to prove he killed someone.

  And I think he’s planning to kill again.

  Icy-cold fingers of fear inch down my spine. Who is this woman, and who is the man she’s accusing of murder? How did Nonna know the journal was in my parents’ backyard? Did she bury it here? Considering she’s never spoken fluent English, it wouldn’t make sense. Did she witness someone else burying the journal?

  Deciding I’ll continue reading the journal at the airport, I try to refill the hole with dirt, leaving the remains of the bush in a pile on top. There won’t be any way to mask the fact that it was destroyed. I shove the journal into my back pocket and return the spade and gloves to their designated spots in the garage before shoving the lunchbox underneath a tarp.

  I pause to look at the spot where Diane took her last breath. If she had cared enough to tell me the truth about everything before she died, would my life be any different? One thing’s for sure: I wouldn’t be jumping on a plane to Baltimore with the only man I ever loved. I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

  I make a note to ask Rocco if he knew about the journal, like Nonna. Maybe he’ll recognize the handwriting. When I step into the kitchen with Henry on my heels, my knees wobble.

  The conversation with Rocco the night before replays through my head.

  “There was only one woman I was serious about after you. 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.”

  The woman feared a man in her life would hurt her daughter.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say aloud. “Roc would never hurt anyone.”

  Then I remember his night terrors and the flash of his rage-fueled reaction when I ran into Nonna.

  My stomach folds over itself. He’s changed.

  What if I’m simply blinded by my lingering feelings for him?

  “You ready to roll?” Rocco asks, breezing into the kitchen with a military bag slung over his shoulder. I’m beyond grateful when Henry barks happily and rockets toward his new friend. It diverts Rocco’s attention long enough to mask my startled cry.

  What the hell do I do now?

  CHAPTER NINE

  BEFORE

  Josephine

  Ithink I might be in love.

  Truth be told, I’ve had a crush on Rocco for as long as I can remember. It’s hard not to like him that way, even though he’s been my best friend—my only friend—since we were little. He told people we were brother and sister for the longest time until we started attending middle school together. Then something changed. He became a fierce protector and taught me to stand up for myself. I haven’t been bullied again since the day I started sixth grade.

  I suspect Rocco feels something for me because he started acting weird a few years ago. He gets all flustered, and his face becomes red a lot when it’s just the two of us. It makes him even cuter, which in turn makes it harder to hide the way I feel about him. I think there’s some unwritten rule we’re both going by that says it’s not okay to be anything more than friends.

  Now that he’s a senior and I’m in 10th grade, things are totally different. My parents aren’t even half as strict now that I’m older. They let me go to school functions and out with friends. Rocco bought a car his sophomore year, and my parents actually let me go places with him. Technically, they think I’m riding around with Noelle Radke, my only girl friend. Whenever I “walk to Noelle’s house” several blocks away so Rocco can pick me up out of sight, they never ask why Noelle doesn’t pick me up at the house. I think they’re just glad to get rid of me these days.

  Diane has drilled into my head that it’s inappropriate for young women to date and tells me I’m not to spend any time with boys outside of school. So when Rocco asked me to his senior prom and told me he’d pay for everything I needed, Noelle took me shopping in her mom’s Aerostar van for shoes, jewelry, and a dress. She stored everything at her house until the big day finally arrives. It’s a miracle my parents don’t seem to know anything about my high school’s events. I’m certain they wouldn’t have let me “stay at Noelle’s” had they known it was prom.

  The dark-haired vixen and I became friends in 8th grade when we were partnered in a science lab. She loves to crack jokes and doesn’t take anything too seriously. We bonded when I realized she didn’t get into gossiping and didn’t judge others like the popular girls in our grade would. She’s an only child, too, raised by a single mom who’s too busy chasing men at the bars to give her daughter much thought. My visits to her house would end if my parents were to learn the truth about Noelle’s mom.

  I’m so dang nervous when I walk over to her house the afternoon of prom that Noelle rolls her beautiful eyes and announces she won’t do my makeup if I’m just going to sweat it back off again. Lucky for me, Noelle is really good with hair, too. An hour after I arrive at her house, I hardly recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. The black mermaid-style dress highlights the curve of my butt, and the ruffles over my chest hide the fact that I’m still as flat as a ten-year-old.

  It’s so frustrating that I haven’t hit puberty like the other 16-year-old girls. Noelle’s mom once told me I’m probably developmentally behind because I’m so petite. Sometimes I wonder why Rocco hasn’t asked me on a date before now. For all I know, he still sees me as his “little sister” and only asked me to prom because he was too afraid to ask a girl his age. I mean, I don’t think he’s even dated anyone.

  When Rocco arrives at Noelle’s house, my stomach sloshes uneasily as I open the door. Then I get a good look at him, and my heart thuds so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it. He’s so strikingly handsome in a black tuxedo, black cummerbund, bow tie, and shiny dress shoes. His dark hair is still long, but it’s slicked back in a new style. And he’s holding a bouquet of three long-stemmed red roses surrounded by baby’s breath, tied with a black ribbon.

  I’m most definitely in love with the man standing before me.

  “Jo,” he whispers, shaking his head. “You look…incredible.”

  “So do you,” I say with heat spreading over my cheeks.

  Noelle takes a picture of us with her mom’s 35mm camera before shooing us away. “You don’t want to be late for dinner at Bella’s,” she says as we head down her front steps. “Make good choices tonight, kids. Wear a condom!”

  Whether or not Rocco heard that last part, he doesn’t react when he opens the passenger’s door for me and closes it after I’m settled inside. We don’t say much on the short drive to his aunt’s restaurant. The way he keeps wiping the palms of his hands on his pants, I worry he’ll wear holes into the material.

  Although it’s packed inside Bella’s, his aunt escorts us to a private table on the stone patio behind the building. It’s a slightly warmer than usual day for late April, but a gentle breeze cools the air to a perfect temp. Since the restaurant was once a house, it’s in a residential neighborhood surrounded by pretty gardens and lush backyards. Unlike the wooden chairs with checkered tablecloths inside, the chairs and table reserved for us are covered in white cloth, and there’s a vase of red roses in the center. I recognize the silverware and crystal glassware from Nonna’s dining room hutch. The dreamy “Fade into You” song Noelle is always playing on repeat drifts into the warm air from Rocco’s boombox nearby.

  Rocco’s aunt, wearing a white dress adorned in colorful flowers and a large red flower pinned behind one ear, waits until we’re seated before dipping with a dramatic curtsey. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress before, and I’ve never seen her dark hair worn in large curls. “La signora and signore, your meals will be out momentarily.”

  “Grazie, Tita,” Rocco calls after her when she dances away.

  Giggling, I turn to catch his heavy gaze on me. “You’re so beautiful when you laugh like that,” he tells me.