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I had to. Otherwise, I’d never escape.
Do you want to?
Shoving my hands into my hair, I told myself to stop asking questions that I already had the answer to — or answers I didn’t want or like but that Ty had made abundantly clear.
I tried to make myself laugh. Did I think that letting him play with my pussy and kiss me senseless meant something?
Had I honestly thought that, somehow, we were meant to be?
“Ugh,” I said out loud. “No more questions.”
Needing a distraction, I began to poke through the shelves of the secret room. There wasn't much besides an accumulation of long-forgotten possessions. Turning, I went back to the window seat and my foot accidentally connected with the baseboard and caused a hollowthwonk.
Frowning, I crouched down and ran my hands over the wood. Then I let myself fall back on my butt and studied it more closely. Each panel was inset with swirls and carvings but as I looked, I could see one of the whirls had the stain rubbed away. Running my fingers over it, I found an edge to hold onto and it turned, then came loose.
Setting the wood piece aside, I felt a tinge of disappointment. It didn’t lead to a secret room or escape hatch. It had opened onto a narrow shelf with a wooden box.
Tugging it out, I tried to wipe at the dust and winced when it coated my fingers. Flipping it open, my breath caught and I almost shoved the box back in the wall.
Staring up at me from a photo was a small, dark-haired boy who could only be Ty Michaelson.
I had no idea how long I sat there, frozen, unable to stop looking at him.
So innocent.He was nothing but a toothy smile and floppy black hair, hanging onto a laughing woman with the same dark hair and eyes. Warmth and loveradiated from the two of them. So much love, it made my throat ache as I thought of my mother.
Finally, my back began to cramp and I rose to my feet, still holding the box. I knew I should slam the lid shut on it, that I was already deep enough into this strange world. The last thing I needed was to go down the Mafia memento road.
But curiosity got the better of me.
Noting that the sky was beginning to darken outside, I tucked the box under my arm, slid the wooden panel back into place and then slipped out of the room.
The entire way back, I held my breath, waiting for Ty to loom up and demand what I was doing, or for one of his men to catch me. But the house was silent and lifeless, and, if I had to guess, Ty wasn’t even here.
Once back in my room, I locked the door, even though I knew it was useless and clambered onto the bed with the box. The movement dislodged it, causing photos, papers, and two thick notebooks to slide out.
The artist in me reached for the notebooks. They were bound in leather with a strap wound around them and reminded me of the expensive field sketchbooks I always wanted to buy. However, when I opened them, it wasn’t pretty handwriting or old-fashioned cursive as I expected.
It was a childish hand, struggling to stay inside the lines but neat enough to read.
Flipping back to the front piece, my lips parted as I read the inscription.
Happy ninth birthday, Ty! Here’s your fancy journal,figlio mio, as requested.
I love you to the edge of the universe and back. – Mamma.
Scrawled in sharpie below was “Tyler Michael Anelli.”
“Anelli?” I murmured out loud. “Was that his mom’s last name?”
Unable to help myself, I flipped forward and began to read. The first entry was a day after his birthday, and young Ty had written a sweet entry that rambled on about how pleased he was with his mother’s gift, how nice the birthday party was and how he would try to write every day. Then it devolved into talking about his friend’s dog and how much he wanted one, but his mom was too busy…
I kept reading, even though it was nothing more than entries made by a normal nine-year-old. He rambled about friends and little adventures, how his Gramps and Nonna made him practice his Italian and what school was like.
Starting about a third of the way in, young Ty began to include photos and stickers, along with drawings and cut-outs frommagazines. He explained that one of his mom’s friends had told him all about collages and had shown him some. Ty had loved collages and wanted to make his own, so his mom had helped, encouraging him to create them right in his journal, which he exclaimed in one passage that he didn’t even know that he could do.
Ty had been a bright, artistic kid with a knack for storytelling. He only improved as he turned ten and got a new journal, even though he wasn’t completely done with the previous one. When I finished that one, my heart was overwhelmed. I reached for the other one without thinking, and it made a funny crack in my hands.
Blinking down at it, it took me a moment to realize that this one wasn't as well-loved and used as the other one had been. The first had been completely worn in, to the point where the leather had a buttery feel from being used so much.
