Tons of books, too. University textbooks, paperbacks on the philosophy of the stars, even astrology.
If my dad wasn’t looking up at the night sky, he had his nose in a book.
You’d think that would make him the kinda guy who never noticed the real world around him.
But he always saw us.
That’s why I can’t believe he was secretly a cold-blooded murderer.
No man who loved the sky and his family as deep and wholeheartedly as he did could do something so awful.
* * *
We’ve been digging for what feels like hours and we’re not finding anything useful.
Not until we get all the way to the back and hit on what I used to call the No-No Chest when I was a baby.
I called it that because every time I went wobbling toward it on my stumpy little legs with my chubby baby fingers reaching for it, Dad would swing me up with a laugh and shake his head and say no, no, little one, those are Daddy’s toys. You can’t break them.
I’d pout and whine, but he’d distract me with things I couldn’t destroy.
Sooner or later the No-No Chest disappeared in the attic, where clumsy little hands couldn’t sneak in when no one was looking. And I guess we all forgot about it.
It’s lacquered wood, dark-stained oak with lighter trim, a rounded top and a simple latch. It’s also covered in a layer of dust so thick I nearly sneeze as I brush it away.
The hinges creak when I lift the lid.
It’s like opening a treasure chest.
Another ton of little keepsakes, most of them in clear plastic display containers with silver foil printed labels.
I can’t help but smile as I lift them out, reading the labels.
It’s the important stuff from his NASA days. A fragment of the last Apollo moon lander prototype. A tiny test component from the Viking probe. Bits of circuitry from too many projects to name. The scratched and dented lens of his very first high-powered telescope.
And yeah, right there, an ashy-colored piece of moon rock the size of my thumb tip.
Dad, you dork.
My smile hurts, but I can’t seem to let it go, even though my breaths are choking.
There’s more stuff here, too.
Little gold locks of hair tied with ribbons—mine and Sierra’s. Photo albums with our baby pictures, family vacation pictures…oh. Baby booties, too. A dried bracelet of flowers I saw in one of the photos of Mom.
Also a little black velvet box with their wedding rings, little bands of gold, and a picture of them tucked into the top of it, a tiny wallet-sized photo of their wedding day.
They were so young.
They look so happy.
I wish I could’ve known them then.
I wish Mom hadn’t died when I was so young.
I wish…
No. All the wishing won’t bring them back or fix this mess I’m in.
“Hey,” Holt calls over my shoulder, and I gasp so sharply I nearly choke. “What’ve you got there?”
“N-nothing.”
Maybe it’s because I’m so emotionally flayed open from going through these old memories, but I can’t stand having him so close right now.
With a gruff sound, I pull away, hefting the chest up by its handles. It’s not that heavy even though it looks like it should be.
“If there’s anything special,” I say, “it’s got to be in here. Let’s take it downstairs where there’s better light.”
There’s plenty of late evening sun spilling through the window. I can see just fine.
I’m just after an excuse to put some space between us.
I refuse his help as I wrestle the trunk down the ladder. I need the distraction, something to keep my hands busy until my feelings calm down.
Downstairs I thunk the chest down on the kitchen table, then start taking things out, laying them in rows.
“All of this stuff is impressive, but it’s not that useful,” I say.
“So far. We’re only at the top layer.” He leans over the box, whistling softly as he picks up the chunk of moon rock and holds it up to the light to inspect it, before laying it down and reaching in to help me unpack more things. “Your dad collected a lot of cool stuff.”
I half-smile. “‘Cool stuff.’ Now you sound like him. He never stopped being a big kid about space junk.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Holt’s hand brushes mine as we both reach into the box at the same time.
Sparks zip through me in a fluttery rush.
I jerk my hand to the side. He doesn’t, continuing on like he didn’t even notice.
“Is that why you and Blake got on so well with him when you were young?” I ask.
“Maybe so. It’s good to keep a sense of wonder. You remember the first time you saw something beautiful when you were a kid? Don’t you wish you could relive that feeling as an adult? Something that pure, that perfect, without all the ugly complicated shit that comes with growing up?”