The Truth Is in the Detours

Chapter 1

It’s been an hour since the truth fell out of an accordion file.

Well, technically, the document was sandwiched between the pages of The PennySaver —filed among my old school projects and Father’s Day cards—and flew out when I flung it to the trash.

Maybe I should have thought it odd that Dad saved junk mail in a locked cabinet.

But yesterday, I found twelve rusted cans of tomato soup in his pantry, so hoarding wasn’t exactly off-brand.

It wasn’t until I caught my name atop the faded legal document that I paid attention. I skimmed it, but then I had to slow down. I read it word by word, line by line, and reread it a dozen times until I understood the legalese. But it still doesn’t make any sense.

Because I can’t fathom why my beloved mother—buried thirty years ago—would have lost her parental rights the year after the accident that supposedly killed her.

I’ve scoured the office for more evidence—for any explanation that doesn’t indict Dad in deceit.

Now, I’m sitting in the middle of the destruction I wrought in my frantic search.

The contents of the file cabinet are scattered across the carpet.

The desk drawers are open and emptied. The piles I painstakingly sorted into “keep,” “donate,” and “dump” are now shuffled like decks of mismatched cards.

But the only information I have is this single slip of paper, dated thirty years ago and stashed away like a secret. There’s a rip in the corner where a staple must have been, with “page 1 of 10” in fine print at the bottom.

I lift the document to the light, hoping to find a faint watermark that says, “Just kidding! Your life wasn’t a lie.

” But nothing comes into focus but the harsh truth.

Mom didn’t die when I was a kid. Instead, she lost the right to mother me.

And I can’t confront Dad about it—because he just took this secret to his grave.

I take a bracing breath, and Dad’s scent—a mix of Dove soap, bitter coffee, and tea tree oil—rushes over me like a breaking wave, and I feel like I’m drowning.

I don’t know when I last had a meal, a shower, or a full night’s sleep, so I can’t eliminate the possibility I’m hallucinating.

I’ve been barricaded in my childhood home since the funeral two weeks ago, sorting through a lifetime of detritus and keepsakes, and trying to pack away Dad’s life and my grief.

And now this—whatever it is. It’s all too much to process.

The brassy chime of the doorbell pierces the silence; it’s a long-winded melody far too formal for this simple stucco home in the middle of casual San Diego.

It’s probably a delivery, so I ignore it.

I don’t want to watch another bouquet wilt in the heat; the scent of decaying flowers is already baked into the drywall.

The doorbell rings again, but my visitor doesn’t wait long before going old school. An impatient fist hits the oak in a triplicate pattern. Once, twice, three times, before my name is barked like a summons from the porch.

I scramble to my feet, and the document floats to the floor—weightless despite the crater it’s made in my life. I dive for it, sifting through the debris to reclaim it from the wreckage.

But my guest is relentless. “Ophelia!” he yells again, louder this time.

I hop over a stack of files but realize too late that my leg is asleep. My ankle turns, and I wince as I trip over a box, falling to the entryway floor and toppling a lamp in my descent.

The front door swings open, and I register brisk footsteps, but I’m too rattled to look up to check the identity of my intruder or worry whether he’s here to make my day worse.

When I feel a hand on my shoulder, my eyes fly open.

His face is too close to come into focus, and he’s assessing me for injuries—or possibly here to finish the job.

In my shock, I take him in through hurried still frames—full pouty mouth, thick black hair, smooth bronze skin, and broad, muscular shoulders.

“Ophelia, are you okay?” The low baritone jolts me back to reality. And shit. I do know that voice—and the familiar furrowed brow and hard scowl. Beauregard Augustin.

I don’t know whether he’s the exact person or the last person I want to see right now, because he’s too many people to process: my childhood friend, my teenage nemesis, and just about the hottest grown man I’ve seen in real life.

And here I am, flat on my face, wearing my grief like rancid perfume and my stained tank top from yesterday.

I tuck my knees under me so I can sit up, wincing from the sting of the fall.

“What happened?” Beau asks, his eyes scanning my face, my body. “What hurts?”

“I’m fine. I just”—I search for an explanation and settle on—“tripped.” I’m too embarrassed to check for blood, so I force a laugh. Raw skin skates over my incisor; I think I have a fat lip.

“Are you sure?” The way Beau asks, it sounds like there will be consequences if I’m not. It’s how a parent dares a kid to double down when they know they’re lying.

I haven’t seen Beau this close up in years, other than in photos on his wife’s Instagram feed, which are always paired with cheesy captions: “My history professor is hotter than your history professor #hotgeek,” or “This man has a doctorate in romance #blessed #PHDofLove.” I unfollowed her a while ago; I couldn’t stomach it anymore.

At this angle, I’m disheartened to learn Beau’s glow-up wasn’t an Instagram filter.

And I’m forced to admit, the years have been kinder to him than me—personally, professionally, and physically.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My mom sent me over for a wellness check. She says you haven’t stepped foot outside since the funeral.” He takes in the disarray, peering into Dad’s office with a sneer, as if he might spot a family of rats frolicking in the filth. “And clearly, it was necessary.”

And clearly , he hasn’t outgrown his tendency to judge me. At least some things haven’t changed.

“I’m fine.” I scoot back and stand, but stagger forward because the lamp cord is wrapped around my ankle. Beau grabs my waist.

“Whoa, hey.” He steadies me and brings his other hand to my shoulder. “Did you hit your head?” His hands are hot on my clammy skin, and for a moment, I want to pretend we’re still friends and let him hold me. He used to give great hugs.

But he’s here only on his mother’s orders; we haven’t been friends in a long time.

“No. Really, I’m fine.” I stand to my full height to prove my point, but the impact is minimal because I barely come to his shoulders.

Man, he’s tall. I remember the summer of his first growth spurt when he could no longer sit in his tree house without stooping his shoulders.

His joints were so bulbous compared to his skinny limbs that he looked like a stick figure built from Tinkertoys.

It was also the summer he broke out with terrible acne.

I still see faint scars across his jawline. But that jawline can now cut glass.

I am thrown by all the ways he’s both familiar and foreign to me. His glasses are just like the ones he wore as a kid, but his face has filled out, and the style has come back in, so he looks more hipster than nerdy.

“You keep saying you’re fine,” Beau snaps as his patience frays, and this, too, is familiar. “But this place is a disaster. I think you might have a head injury. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His words land like a bad punch line. I’m having an out-of-body moment, because I’m listening to myself laughing and can’t seem to stop it.

What begins as a chuckle becomes a cackle—a roar.

I’m hunched over, holding my stomach, and clutching the document like it’s a permanent appendage.

I can’t catch my breath or explain to Beau why I’ve become the unhinged lunatic he assumes me to be.

You’re right, I want to say. I did see a ghost. But it wasn’t an apparition. It was a court order.