Can't find my other stories. ----------- Prologue As Bethany approaches her thirteenth birthday, he parents act more oddly than usual: Her mother cries constantly, and her father barely lets Bethany out of his sight. Then one morning he hustles the entire family into the car, drives across several state lines—and leaves Bethany with an aunt she never knew existed. Bethany has no idea what's going on. She's worried her mom and dad are running from some kind of trouble, but she can't find out because they won't tell her where they're going. Bethany's only clue is a few words she overheard her father tell her aunt. "She doesn't know anything about Elizabeth." But Aunt Myrlie won't tell Bethany who Elizabeth is, and she won't explain why the people react to Bethany as if they've seen a ghost. The mystery intensifies when Bethany gets a package from her father containing four different birth certificates from four different states with four different last names, and thousands of dollars in cash. Also, when a strange man shows up asking questions, Bethany realizes she's not the only one who's desperate to unravel secrets of her past. ------- Like it? Tell me if I should continue
Thank you ---- My mother is crying. She is trying to do it silently, but from the backseat of the car I see her shoulders heaving up and down, her entire body racked by sobs. I look out the window at the darkness flowing past our car, and the pinpoints of the lights on the horizon seem far, far away. My mother always cries, now. In the beginning, back in the summer, I used to comfort her, ask her—stupidly—"Is something wrong?" And she'd force her face into some tortured face of fake happiness, her smile trembling, her eyes still brimming with tears: "Oh no, dear, nothing's wrong. Would you like some milk and cookies?" That was before today, before my father hustled the three of us into the car and we drove for hours and hours across unfamiliar states, the light fading and the roads we are getting on smaller and smaller, more and more remote. I do not know why my mother is crying. I do not know where we are going. I could ask our destination, if nothing else. A thousand times today I've managed to squeak out, "Can you tell me...?" But then I'd look into the front seat, at my mother's silent shaking, my father's grim profile, the mournful bags beneath his eyes, and all the questions I might ask seemed abusive. Assault and battery, a question mark used like a club. My parents are old and fragile. I'd have to be heartless to want to hurt them. A red traffic signal flashes overhead, and my father comes to a complete stop and stares at the empty crossroads for whole minutes before inching forward. He's an insanely careful driver. My mother is too, or was, before she started crying all the time and stopped doing anything else. I turn my head, looking away from both my parents. We're on the outskirts of a small town now. I squint out the window at a dark sign half hidden in bushes: WELCOME TO...