SCINTILLATE - Book #1 of The Light Key Trilogy

Chapter 13

I watched my father eat his breakfast the next morning in the way a scientist observes the mating ritual of sloths. Suddenly, everything he did and how he did it was slow, irritating, and suspicious. I was consumed with questions about myself, about my mother, and now knew that my father, the one person I had trusted above all others, was hiding the answers from me. His idea of keeping me safe was to render me ignorant.

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 and long-forgotten 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.