"You’re mad that I didn’t tell you about Georgetown." Another statement.
I’m going to have a cramp in my jaw soon.
"How do you always know everything?" Sarcasm drips from the question.
Rhys grins smugly at me, and I want to sucker-punch him.
"Not everything, Cal. Just you."
Right, I forgot; he has spied on me for the past two years.
I press my lips together in an attempt to hide my smile and remain angry, but it’s not working. He’s always had the ability to pull me back from any sort of emotional cliff. So much has happened between us, but he still knows me that well. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It didn’t occur to me to text you. I’m glad you did, though." He genuinely smiles at me.
I sigh. "Okay. Just..." I try to think of the right words, and something clicks. "I can’t do this alone." I gesture at the papers. As much as I don’t want to let him in, I need his help, which scares me almost as much as the reasonwhyI need him.
Rhys understands the meaning. "We can message during the day. You can tell me what you’re up to, and I can text you when I’m home. We can meet up after everyone goes to bed and work on things."
I frown. "Um, what are you going to tell Heather and Tristen about coming home all of a sudden?"
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Nothing. Not my problem what they think."
"Rhys!" My pulse increases; he promised not to act any different.
"Calla!" he mimics my tone. "Calm down, if they ask—which they won’t since you and I will still ignore each other—I’ll just say Wes is sleepwalking again. He confuses the couch for the bathroom, and I don’t enjoy getting pissed on every other night. It’ll be fine. I promise." Without blinking an eye about the ridiculous lie, he switches gears and gestures to the articles. "What are you doing?"
I snort. "Not so fast. First of all, that’s the most unbelievable story I have ever heard come out of your mouth—and that’s saying a lot after last weekend. And second, what about Wes?"
Rhys rolls his eyes. "You’re overthinking this. I haven’t had to explain myself to anyone in years. If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell Wes I’m staying at Kat’s."
No, that doesn’t make me feel better.
Not satisfied with his answer, but refusing to analyze why the excuse of him sleeping at his girlfriend’s house causes a red haze to settle over my vision, I frown at the paper still in my hand and admit, "I was hoping something would trigger another migraine, something that can give us a hint as to where to start looking."
He looks concerned now. "Nothing?"
"Nothing," I huff.
We’re both sobusy during the week with our individual routines that, twice, I fall asleep before Rhys gets home.
Thursday, I finally remember something. We go over the room I was in, and I try to outline where everything is when I recall a small bookshelf with lots of used children’s books and a small dresser on the other side of the door that contained clothes—all around my size.
So creepy.
It all points even more towardthe incidentbeing planned and thought out.
Why did he pick me?
Aside from Lillyremembering more furniture, we’ve made zero progress. It’s getting late, and she sits cross-legged, leaning against her headboard, laptop on her lap. I sit at the foot of the bed, facing her, and sift through notes.
"I feel like there has to be something in this house."
Lilly glances over her screen, trying to stifle a yawn. "What do you mean?"
I shrug. "Like adoption papers, medical files, whoever erased your memory about Emily and Henry. I don’t know.Something. I mean, you have my last name; there must be a paper trail for that."
Lilly doesn’t flinch anymore when I mention Emily and Henry. I’ve told her everything I remember about them, which, unfortunately, isn’t a whole lot. After all, I was seven when everything went down. But I do remember that they seemed to be good people. Good parents. I make sure to emphasize that to Lilly. I want her to understand that not everyone in her life is—or was—bad.