The Secret Box by Whitaker Ringwald Page A

phone.
    â€œAnd . . . ?” Tyler asked.
    I held the phone low so he couldn’t tell what I was doing. “And what?” I stalled.
    â€œAnd what did you find? Jeez, are we speaking the same language? Maybe I should try Pig Latin. Atwhay idday ouyay indfay?”
    â€œI found . . .” I tried another search engine. Juniper Vandegrift didn’t appear anywhere. “I found . . . I found nothing.” I sat back against the seat and looked into Jax’s eyes. “It’s really weird but absolutely nothing comes up. Not a birth date, not an address, not a Facebook page. It’s almost as if she doesn’t exist.”
    Jax frowned. “But she does exist. She sent me a package.”
    â€œWiden the search,” Tyler said. “Birth records, college alumni associations, phone book records—she’s there.”
    â€œShe’s not here,” I insisted.
    â€œThen she’s living under an alias, or she’s paid someone to remove her records,” Tyler said. “If she doesn’t want to be found then it’s possible the return address is fake.”
    â€œFake?” Jax said. “But it can’t be fake. I have to find that box.”
    Tyler followed my directions off the interstate. The scenery changed quickly. No more fast-food restaurants or strip malls. Everything was green and lush and in full bloom.
    â€œWow, the people around here must be rich,” Jax said as we passed sprawling estates with manicured lawns and huge winding driveways. “Do you think Juniper is rich? She must be if she lives out here. Really rich.” I could tell that Jax was building a huge story in her head about our great-aunt, just like the stories she’d built about her father. Hopefully, reality wouldn’t be too disappointing.
    We passed old stone buildings and smaller houses from the early colonial period. You see a lot of those around here. A few turns in the road and we passed a Welcome to Historic New Hope sign. Tyler pointed out that my estimated time of arrival was off by sixteen minutes.
    New Hope was a weird place. Every other shop looked like an art gallery of some sort. There was a tie-dyed T-shirt shop, a bunch of craft stores, and a store that sold healing stones. A bunch of Harley Davidson motorcycles were parked in front of a stand selling roasted turkey legs. “Hey,” I said, pointing. “That’s a medieval gallery.” A full-sized coat of armor hung in the window.
    â€œCool,” Tyler said. He slammed his foot, stopping right in the middle of the road. I was thrust forward against my seat belt. The car behind us honked, its brakes screeching.
    â€œWhoa,” Jax complained, bracing herself against the dashboard. “What’d you do that for?”
    â€œSee any swords?” Tyler asked.
    Tyler had a sword collection that wasn’t allowed to leave his bedroom. Mom said someone might get hurt, even though the blades were dull because they were replica productions from some of his favorite movies. He had Glamdring, Gandalf’s sword, and Excalibur, King Arthur’s sword, and Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber, to name a few. Actually, I think Mom was more worried about people making judgments. She wasn’t trying to protect Tyler—everyone already knew he was a geek. I think she was protecting her own reputation. Her job was to make sure toys were safe, so she was totally opposed to toy weapons.
    â€œNo,” I lied, rubbing the back of my neck. “I don’t see any swords.” The car behind honked again.
    We drove a bit farther, until we reached West Ferry Street. “There’s a spot,” Jax announced, pointing. It was a perfect spot, plenty of room, between a Chevy truck and a Volvo station wagon. Tyler slowed, eyed the space for a moment, then passed by.
    â€œNot enough room,” he said.
    Jax scowled. “But there was plenty