The Shadow Girl by Jennifer Archer Read Free Book Online Page B

finger under the lid of a shoebox on the upper closet shelf and drag it toward me. The movement causes something to slide across the bottom of the box and the rattling sound of metal against metal trips my pulse. I take the box down and pull off the lid. “Here they are!”
    Lifting the ring of keys, I turn to find Wyatt watching me with an expression that makes me ashamed of my triumphant feelings.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I can’t just sit around crying and wondering what Mom’s hiding for the rest of my life. That’s all I’ve done for the past few days, and I’m sick of it.” I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I say defensively, “Well, what would you do?”
    He blinks at me. “The same thing, probably. But maybe you should go to your mom one more time.”
    “She won’t talk to me! She just keeps saying that she’s going through Dad’s things or that she’s sketching when she’s out in his shop.”
    “Maybe she is.”
    “Then why won’t she let me in?”
    Wyatt pushes away from the door and sighs. “Let’s find out.”
    Minutes later, memories of Dad wash over me as we enter the shop. “Would you close the door?” I say quickly to Wyatt. “I feel too exposed with it up.”
    He slides the door down behind us as I wander toward an unfinished cabinet in the center of the room. The scents of pungent wood shavings and Dad’s spicy pipe tobacco surround me. Dust motes dance in the blades of light that slice down from the small windows above. Stooping, I run my fingers along the edge of the cabinet. The aspen it’s made of is as white and smooth as the petals on the daffodils that have started sprouting in the meadows around our cabin.
    For the first time since Dad died, my heart beats at a normal pace. Maybe I’ve misjudged Mom. Maybe she does spend her days out here just to feel close to him.
    No, she’s hiding something, Iris insists. Whatever he was going to tell you .
    Wyatt interrupts my focus on Iris’s words. “Maybe we should leave,” he says. “It’s sort of soon for you to be coming out here.”
    “No, I’m okay. It feels good to be around Dad’s stuff. It’s just strange being here without him. This place was always off limits unless he was with me. He said it wasn’t safe, and he didn’t like anyone messing with his tools.” I scan the space around us, the peg board–covered walls with hooks and tools hanging from them, the wood stacked along one of them, Dad’s workbench and electric table saw, the paper-thin wood shavings scattered across the floor. Projects he left unfinished. “I feel him here,” I whisper.
    “Me, too,” Wyatt says.
    “I think Mom was going through Dad’s big toolbox.” I walk to the storage closet, the key ring dangling from my fingers. “She must’ve dragged it back in here.” I try each key on the ring until the door unlocks. When I open it, I’m surprised to find two metal toolboxes inside—Dad’s battered one, and another one just like it that looks almost new. “That’s strange,” I say, laying my hand on the shiny metal. “I’ve never seen this one before.”
    Wyatt helps me tug it out into the room. Dropping to my knees, I insert each key in the latch, and when one of them works, I take a deep breath. “This might sound crazy, but I’m really scared to see what’s in here.”
    “Let me do it,” says Wyatt, crouching beside me. The hinges squeak as he opens the lid. “It’s just a bunch of clothes.”
    Iris seems eager but also tense, as I stand and lift out the first piece of clothing and remove the dry-cleaner plastic around it. It’s the fanciest dress I’ve ever seen, except in magazines and on television. The emerald green fabric is covered with tiny green beads.
    “Wow.” Wyatt blinks at me. “Was that your mom’s?”
    “I guess.”
    “I can’t imagine her wearing something like that.”
    I can’t see my no-frills mother in the dress, either. She’s strictly a