Free The Shadow Girl by Jennifer Archer

stare.
    “Sorry to bother you,” I murmur to the tiny doll. “I’d just like another look at that note, if you don’t mind.” Retrieving the scrap of paper, I unfold it, place it on my knee. A pencil lies nearby on the floor. Dad was always using them out here; he must’ve dropped it. I pick it up and trace the name Jake on the note, wondering who he might be.
    “You know who Jake is, don’t you?” I say to the ballerina, staring into her pinpoint eyes. Sighing, I give the peg beside her one twist. She twirls, and music trickles through the quiet workshop like water in a brook.
    I flinch at the sound and reach to stop the song, but before I can close the lid, my elbow knocks over the lantern and the bulb flicks off. Darkness swoops over me like the wing of a giant black bird.
    The music continues to play, weaving a ribbon of heartache around me so tight that I can’t move, drawing me someplace where nothing exists but the melody . . . where nothing else matters.
    I’m unsure how much time passes before Iris brings me back. I open my eyes to the darkness again and a sensation that I’ve traveled to a place I once knew. A place that felt like home.
    We have to find Jake, Iris says. He’ll help us.
    I fumble around on the floor until I find the lantern. With one rattle, the bulb engages and faint light quivers. The note from Jake lies atop the violin case. Written in pencil in my own handwriting beneath his name, just above the ragged torn edge of the paper, are the words: Winterhaven, Massachusetts.

7

    Early the next morning, I wake to pounding above me. My first thought is that Dad is on the roof, nailing down shingles, continuing the project he started before my birthday. But then I remember, and the pain of losing him crashes down around me.
    Cookie’s whining in his pen. I sit up on the couch. Is he in pain? He slept through the night—maybe he’s just desperate to go outside. I reach for my cell phone on the coffee table and check the time. Ten fifteen. I can’t believe I slept so late.
    As I tuck my phone into the pocket of my baggy pajama pants, the weird things that happened in the workshop last night come back to me. The first time I played the jewelry box, I kissed Wyatt. The second time, I wrote on the note. Does the music throw me into some sort of trance?
    Pushing my worries to the back of my mind, I get up and go to the door where I left my boots last night before I tiptoed to Mom’s room to return her keys. As I put them on, the pounding overhead continues.
    Entering the pen, I try to coax Cookie out, but he won’t budge. He yelps when I lift him to his feet. I stay beside him as he limps into the room, then makes his way onto the porch. When he hesitates at the top of the stairs, I carry him down into the yard and set him in the grass. He does his business, then hobbles over to a patch of shade and plops down with a groan, his head on his paws.
    Concerned about him, I say, “What’s wrong, boy? Why are you so sad? Does it still hurt that much?” I don’t understand. Dr. Trujillo said that Cookie should get a little better every day.
    It’s warmer than it’s been all spring, with only a slight breeze blowing. Wyatt’s truck is parked behind Mom’s Blazer in the driveway. Knowing Cookie won’t go anywhere, I walk to the side of the cabin where I find Mom shielding the sun from her face with one hand as she looks up to where Wyatt is perched on his knees, hammering away at the roof. Wondering if we’re back on speaking terms, I try to gauge her frame of mind as I pause beside her.
    “Morning,” I say.
    She glances at me. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
    “I slept okay.” I follow her gaze to the roof. “How’d you manage to bribe Wyatt to do manual labor?”
    “He volunteered, free of charge. You’re too hard on him. Wyatt’s always been a good worker.”
    “Yeah, but usually for a price. And he takes Sunday being a day of rest to the extreme.”
    Mom smiles.