Chapter 2
Jake
Seconds after the porch light goes off at the house across the street, I drop the curtain. I didn’t intend to spy, but when a car door slammed outside, I couldn’t resist. I’ve never had a neighbor before. I’ve never lived anywhere outside of my family’s sprawling property, where the nearest neighbor is a mile away.
Then once I started, I couldn’t stop. The woman who answered the door looked a whole hell of a lot like the woman from the store. Her tension was palpable, even with a street between us.
I couldn’t tell if I needed to intervene. I kept watching just in case I needed to run out there if things escalated.
Who was he? An ex-boyfriend?
Earlier, at the store, she was flustered and distressed, her face bright red with embarrassment.
And yet she kept it together and retained her sense of humor in an awkward situation. Even cracked a joke when her little girl said she had to poop.
I chuckle.
She had dirt on her clothes and violet smudges under her eyes. But her eyes were bright and intelligent, and she had this almost glow about her that?—
Holy hell, I sound like a damn teen drama.
I blame my sisters for forcing me into hours and hours of Grey’s Anatomy and Vampire Diaries,which I absolutely did not enjoy even though technically I could have left the room at any time.
Anyway. It doesn’t matter because I’m only here temporarily and I have more important things to focus on.
I walk over to the desk in the corner where the informational booklet on the rental is propped open. I run a finger down the page until it lands on the name and contact info for the property manager, the person I’ve been stalking for over a year now, and the reason I left my hometown of Whitby, New York, to spend time in Dull, Oregon.
Ryan Green.
My cell phone rings and I groan. I’ve been avoiding most of my calls, mostly from my sister Finley and her fiancé Archer, but I can’t avoid this one.
If I don’t answer, he’ll come after me.
In reality, he’ll pay other people to come after me. Lots of people. As many as it takes. He has the resources and connections to send in the CIA, probably.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax and answer. “Hey, Oliver.”
“You need to call Finley.”
Getting right to the point, as usual, his voice snapping like a disgruntled turtle. It’s cute. He’s worried about me.
I tread down the short hallway to the bedroom, using the time to pause for a few long seconds, just to be annoying. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. How are you?”
“I didn’t invest that money for you to take off without a word to your sisters.”
“I left word.”
Nine words, to be precise. On a sticky note I pressed to the fridge as I was walking out the door.
Went to look for letter writer. I’ll be back.
It was succinct. To the point. Poetic, even. Maybe a Haiku. I scratch my head. How many syllables are needed for a Haiku?
“I never should have told you about the money.”
“Uh, pretty sure it would have been illegal not to, my bro.”
Oliver practically growls. He’s probably strangling his cell phone at this point.
I grin at the thought and pick up my bag from the floor, setting it on the pale green bedspread and rummaging for sleep clothes.
Over a year ago, I began sending Oliver a large chunk of my paychecks to invest for me. Out of nowhere, he called me last month to tell me he’d quadrupled my investment—and it continues to grow. He’s got a golden thumb. He’s good at everything. He never loses, ever. He wins every competition I can think of, from fishing to axe throwing to goddamn cross-stitching. It doesn’t matter what it is. The man is like a medical marvel. It’s annoying. But also convenient for me, since I needed the money to spend a couple of weeks investigating. So I can’t be too petty. At least, not outwardly.
“I am not your bro,” he huffs.
“You will be soon enough.”
He’s more or less my brother-in-law because even if he hasn’t married Piper yet, it’s only a matter of time.
Where are my pajama pants? My fingers wrap around something silky, and I tug it loose from the jumble of clothes in my bag.
I lift it up. It’s a black V-neck tee that is at least three sizes too small. And a crop top. And there’s a rhinestone raccoon bedazzled on the front with the words Trash Panda glittering across the chest.
This is Finley’s shirt.
I sigh and chuck it on the bed. Archer bought her that shirt as a gift for Christmas. They are so weird. It must have gotten mixed up in my laundry. What is it with them and raccoons? I don’t understand the fascination. They’re a menace and they look like corgis who’ve gone emo.
“Is this about your dad’s letters?” Oliver asks.
“Yes.”
“What is your plan?”
I’m not prepared to share everything I know, which isn’t much.
My plan is to find the truth, the answers to the questions that have been plaguing me for months.
Did Dad have a second family? Why did he hide this relationship from us? What even is this relationship? Who exchanges letters back and forth for months with a total stranger? If it’s just a meaningless pen pal, why hide it? It’s like he had this whole second life. Why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t he tell me?
We were so close, especially near the end of his life, when I was his primary caretaker. We talked a lot. About everything. Well, almost everything.
He was one of the few people who understood the one topic I avoided and why.
And I thought I understood him. But for the past year and a half, I haven’t known what to think.
“What about the camp? Don’t they need you?” Oliver’s voice in my ear rips me from my thoughts.
“Finley hired enough counselors to babysit half the kids in upstate New York.” It was always a pity job anyway, since my sister is the majority owner of the property where the kids camp is located, a property that has been in our family forever. Oliver is the other stakeholder and the one who funded the charitable venture.
“Where are you?” Oliver asks.
I scratch the back of my head. “I’m not quite ready to elaborate on that.”
“You know I have the means to find out.”
I snort. I’m sure. He probably has a dozen gray-hat hackers on retainer. “You won’t have to. I’ll be back in a few weeks. This is something I need to do on my own.”
“I’m not going to lie to Piper.”
“I’m not asking you to. You don’t know where I am. You have plausible deniability.”
“If she asks me to send out the search party, I’m not saying no.”
I sigh. I can argue with him, but that will be as useful as arguing with a park bench. “Just don’t do anything until she asks, okay?”
“Fine.” The line clicks.
He hung up.
I chuckle at the phone and then toss it on the bed.
That will buy me some time at least. Hopefully enough time to get what I need and get back to Whitby before my family descends. I had to leave. The walls were closing in. Every time Finley looked at me with that divot between her brow and a frown tugging at her mouth, I wanted to bolt. Or drink. And drinking isn’t an option.
Archer and Finley were constantly hovering, asking if I was okay, searching my face with concerned eyes—not exactly heinous behavior, but I’m twenty-seven years old.
They need to realize I can handle things. That I can stand on my own. I’m not perfect, and I’m not entirely over... everything that’s happened in the past. I’ll never stop grieving, but I’m fine. I’m surviving. They don’t need to hold on so tight. Any tighter, I might crack.
But now that I think of it, leaving with no word except that one Post-it may not have been the best way to stop their worrying. But what else could I do? They would never stand aside while I did this on my own.
I zip my bag closed before dumping it on the floor beside the bed again. The house is small, the bedroom barely large enough to fit the queen-sized bed and dresser, but it’s clean and well maintained.
It could have been a complete hovel and I would’ve booked it. I picked this place because of the property manager.
Ryan Green.
A year and a half ago, my siblings and I went through our dad’s bedroom together to clean it out and found a stack of letters to our dad from someone named Ryan. Most of the letters were stories and updates about someone named Mia. None of us knew who these people were. My sisters didn’t want to know. They had their own stuff going on.
For months, I read through the letters, hunting for clues, trying to figure out the connection or any hints at all as to who these people were and why they were writing to Dad.
There was a phrase that didn’t quite make sense, good old Dull. I thought it was a mistake or some lingo or slang I just wasn’t getting, but then I realized there’s a town called Dull in Oregon.
Once I had that little clue, I hired a private investigator, Dwayne, to help me find Ryan and Mia. That was all I had to go on, no last names, nothing else specific, but it’s a small town so it didn’t take long to find them.
Within weeks, Dwayne located an obituary for Mia. She died six years ago. She was only twenty-one. The article listed her surviving relatives, including a sibling named Ryan Green. It has to be him, the letter writer.
I’ve had a year plus forty-one hours of solo drive time to come up with some ideas on how to find out the truth.
Objective number one: find a way to meet Ryan. It started with renting this property he manages. I don’t know where he lives, but I have his contact information. Then, once we’re face-to-face, I’ll... I have no idea.
The most logical approach would be to ask why he was writing to my dad, but what if he’s my brother? What if he’s not? I need to see him in person and get an idea of what kind of person he is. Then maybe I’ll know what path to take forward. The only thing I know for certain is I need a DNA sample. Maybe that will clear some things up without a confrontation.
Across the room, the box my PI sent me rests atop the dresser. It’s a small, prestamped package with all the materials needed to send in a DNA sample. They’ll even do a rush job and get me the results within a couple of days. For a fee, of course.
Based on research Dwayne conducted through my ancestry records, there’s no obvious genetic link, no reason to suspect Dad may have had another family. But after reviewing property records and other public records, he discovered Ryan and Mia were from Dull originally, but then moved to Ithaca and lived there for a few years when they were young. Ithaca is only a few hours from my family home in Whitby. At some point, they moved back to Dull.
Is Ithaca where the connection started? But how and why? I have so many questions and no answers. Not yet.
I make my way back down the hall, through the living room, and into the galley-style kitchen. My eyes trail over the appliances. What can I break that would require a call to the landlord but not be too hard to fix?
I pull the oven out a few inches. It’s a tight squeeze between the beige granite countertops. It takes a bit of wiggling, but eventually, I get it back far enough to fit my arm behind it. I reach down and yank on the plug, then push the oven back into place.
That should do it.