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I’d have to find the answers myself.

The clock taunted me. I wanted him to leave so I could have the house to myself and search for clues. School could wait. It was just yearbook day, anyway. “Cora,” Janelle’s voice rang out as I rinsed my plate. “Are you going to let the water run forever? Do you know what a group of villagers in a third-world country would do for a gallon of our water?”

I smacked the faucet handle and dried my hands on my jeans. I watched her and my dad leave for work with the squinty-eyed scrutiny of a CIA operative. I was alone, and I had some sleuthing to do.

I locked the front door, hoping it would alert me if someone came home early. I searched my mother’s name online. Nothing. No people-finding sites had any information on her. Increasingly desperate, I contacted the Missing Persons Bureau within Ireland’s National Police Service. A man answered, and my heart stumbled over itself at the sound of his Irish accent. I’d written out what I wanted to say, which turned out to be a good move because I wondered if I’d be able to speak through my nerves.

“Hello. I’d like to know how I might obtain any information you have on a missing person from twelve years ago. Do you keep files that long? And if so, can I get a copy? The woman was my mother.”

“All right. Let’s take your questions one by one, dear,” the man responded. “We do indeed keep the records on all missing persons. I’ll need the name.”

“Her name was—is—Grace. Grace Sandoval.”

The clicking of his keyboard joined with static from the connection. I took a few deep breaths. Why should I feel so nervous? I was entitled to the information. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The man grunted. Maybe she had been murdered, and my dad never wanted to tell me. I almost hung up, but brought the phone back to my ear.

“I have no record of a missing person by that name.”

That lent support to Dad’s story that she abandoned us. She didn’t care a whit about my father, about her baby. Me. But it didn’t jibe with Mami Tulke’s phantom voice speaking about not being able to “save” her. If my mother had died, why wouldn’t Dad have said so all along? I mumbled my thanks and hung up.

I went to my dad’s bedroom to look for something, anything. An hour’s search turned up nothing, no mysterious cigar boxes in the closet, no secret wall safes behind paintings, nothing. Knowing him, he’d keep anything important at his office or in a safe-deposit box somewhere. Somewhere away from me.

I looked around the entire house, in every drawer, in every cabinet, even bins in the garage. Finally, I stood in the living room, my hands on my hips, staring at the built-in shelves surrounding our fireplace. I realized I had been looking for something hidden in a dark corner but overlooking the things that had been right in front of me my whole life.

When I wanted to hide something private, like my Ireland scrapbook, I hid it with yearbooks, novels, and the old albums I liked to collect. Hidden. But in plain sight.

Dad’s treasure boxes were scattered throughout the house. I flipped one open. Empty. The next one held guitar picks from when he used to play. Another held a pile of glass “jewels” I got at Disneyland. Every treasure box in the house was either empty or filled with frivolous objects. Except for one in the spare bedroom. It was empty, but when I tossed it onto the bed in frustration, I spotted a tiny key taped to the underside.

I ran back to the living room. Up on the highest shelf sat one last box. I’d skipped it in my search because it would require a ladder to reach it. Now I noticed it had a tiny lock on its brass clasp.

I dragged the ladder from the garage and propped it against the wall. It wobbled a bit as I climbed. The treasure box was made of dark wood and hand-painted with vines and tiny flowers. Its edges were scalloped with golden metal and dotted with studs. I took the key from my teeth, stuck it in the lock, and turned. It clicked and sprang open.

When I lifted the lid, I saw it was filled with items. Careful not to drop it, I took the box from its place and climbed down. I squirreled the box in my room and darted back to the living room to put the ladder away in case Dad or Janelle came home. They might not notice the box was missing right away, but they’d sure as heck notice a twelve-foot ladder perched up to the empty space. Every cell in my body was on high alert and pumping with adrenaline as I carried the ladder back to the garage. Then I ran back to my room to find out what treasure Dad had locked away.

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I lifted the first item from the box: a photograph. I gasped, my body recognizing who it was even though my conscious memory didn’t. The woman’s face was obscured, half-buried in the wild black curls of the little girl on her lap, but I could tell she was laughing. Her arms wrapped protectively…lovingly…around the little girl. One hand rested over the middle of the girl’s chest, right over her heart.

My heart.

It was me in the picture, without a doubt. The same wild hair, the same big green eyes and spider lashes. I remembered getting in huge trouble for cutting them one day because a boy at the park told me they looked like spider’s legs.

I could’ve stared at that picture all day, but I had to see what else was in the box. I unearthed a leather portfolio bound with a cord. I unraveled it and opened the pouch. Two passports fluttered out alongside a birth certificate.

My birth certificate? The birth date was right, but the name was wrong. I struggled to stay calm, to keep my hands steady as I read.

Daisy Josephina Sandoval

Josephina was Mami Tulke’s first name. But I was born as Daisy? My mind flashed back to every birthday, every special occasion when my father gave me daisies. It was my father honoring my real name.

But who sent the bouquet Finn delivered in the hospital?

I flipped open one of the passports—an Irish one. My little-kid face smiled back at me. There was only one stamp, from Ireland to the United States, to San Francisco. The second passport was for me as well, this time under the name Cora, with a picture of me from about two years ago, still wearing braces. I had no idea I had a current passport.

I unfolded a cream piece of paper. A pressed daisy floated onto my jeans from an invitation for my parents’ wedding. It was held at the most famous church in Dublin—Christ Church. A postcard enclosed with the invitation featured a photo of the medieval-looking church. I put the flower and postcard back inside and refolded the paper.

A new thought pinged. Did Dad take me from my mother? I heard stories like that all the time. What if he was the one who did the abandoning? Were we in hiding? Why else would he have changed my name?

I tried to calm my racing heart and mind. Other legal-type papers declared my mother missing or deceased. Deceased. My head and heart ached. Their marriage was annulled. I set the papers on the bedspread next to me, tears blurring my vision.

At the very bottom of the box lay an envelope. Neat script across the front read Benito. I wiped my eyes and opened the letter.

Dearest Benito,

I know you don’t want to hear these words. My dear heart, I don’t blame you. But I can’t let you stop me from saying them. It’s too important. There may come a day when I don’t come home. The more I learn, the more frightened I become. Someone doesn’t want me to continue my research. I wouldn’t be the first to disappear. You know that.