The Secrets We Keep by Trisha Leaver
For my blackbird
PROLOGUE
I don’t remember her room being so cold. Even snuggled into her sweater the chill seeps in, settling into my bones like a whisper from beyond. That’s where I will sleep tonight … in Maddy’s bed, surrounded by her scent. Mom wants to change the sheets, but I won’t let her. The hints of vanilla and lavender mingled with Alex’s dark cologne brings a little piece of my sister back to me each night.
The only thing I have left of my old life is a few sketches and a poor replica of the friendship bracelet Josh gave me. It took me days to re-create, to weave the strings into the right pattern. It’s not perfect, but it goes with me everywhere, a pathetic reminder of who I once was and what Josh still means to me. The real bracelet is gone, cut off and tossed aside just like my life.
I want to make peace with my choice, but Maddy’s secret haunts me. The dark pieces of her life are hidden in the back of her closet for no one but me to see. She’s not who I thought she was, but that doesn’t matter. Maddy was my sister, my twin sister, and I’ll do anything for her, including losing myself.
1
My phone vibrated on my nightstand, jarring me from the sketchbook I had open on my lap. I’d re-created the same drawing five times in the past week, and yet it still wasn’t good enough. Problem was, if I didn’t figure it out by midnight tomorrow, I’d be out of time.
Assuming it was Josh again, I let it go to voice mail, more concerned with perfecting the sketch than bickering with him over something his neighbor and sometime-girlfriend, Kim, had said. I wasn’t interested in dissecting why she was offended that Josh chose to let me drive him to school every day, even though she lived less than a hundred yards from him and he had a car of his own. That was his problem, not mine. And if he couldn’t figure that one out on his own, then he was an idiot.
I tossed my charcoal pencil down in favor of graphite. Perhaps it was the reflection of light in my picture that was off. After a few strokes, I realized it wasn’t—all I’d done was take a relatively decent drawing and make it worse.
The phone rang again, the same irritating song breaking my concentration. Swearing, I caught it before it buzzed off my nightstand and tossed it onto the bed next to me. Josh knew I was finishing up my portfolio tonight. I wanted it in early to ensure I was on track for early admission and not slotted into the general-admission pool for the Rhode Island School of Design. His call could wait; he’d understand.
The phone kept ringing, only stopping long enough to chime with an incoming text. Shaking my head, I turned to check the time. The bright numbers on my alarm clock bothered my bleary eyes. After several long, hard blinks and a few more muttered curses, the numbers came into focus. Two twenty-three in the effin morning. What could be so important that Josh had to call me at two-thirty in the morning?
I rubbed my eyes and answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. “What do you want now, Josh?”
“Ella? It’s me.”
It took a second for me to place the voice. It sounded off, throaty, and quieter than usual. I stared at the phone. My mind registered that it was my sister talking, but I still searched my darkened room for her. I don’t know why; we hadn’t shared a room since we were ten.