The Story Keeper by Lisa Wingate Page B

take my secrets with me.
    “Thanks for hearing me out, Mitch.” Part of me was saying, She’s right. You know she’s right. But part of me was rejoicing in the fact that she hadn’t slammed the door on my idea   —she’d just told me I had to walk through at my own risk. “I’ll give it some more thought.”
    “I would if I were you. I’ve seen people here one minute and gone the next. Doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Loyalty, honesty, teamwork   —it’s right there on the Vida House logo. But George Vida also values hunches. Question is, which side will he come down on in this case? Not that I know anything about this whole matter . . . because I don’t. Understood?”
    “Yes, I understand.”
    “ If you’re going to pursue it, I’d catch George Vida when the gatekeeper’s not around.” By the gatekeeper , she meant Hollis, of course.
    “Thanks, Mitch.”
    “Don’t thank me,” she muttered. “Keep in mind, it could just as easily be the rope you hang yourself with.”

Chapter 9
    T he airplane bounced and rattled over patches of turbulent air, the motion rousing me as the pilot announced the remaining flight time. Blinking against the sleep haze, I swore I heard Friday growling and snuffling, but the report over the PA system reminded me I was far from home by now. I couldn’t quite remember why I was traveling, but it didn’t seem to matter. I just wanted to catch a little more sleep. . . .
    Letting my eyes fall closed, I reached for a memory that was circling, foggy yet. Something about the plane’s sound and motion reminded me of riding in a squeaky Radio Flyer wagon downhill over a bumpy road. My mind traveled back and back and back. Back to a rust-eaten red wagon with four of us piled inside, bone-thin limbs and bare feet poking out everywhere.
    Laughter and squeals. Marah Diane’s high-pitched voice screeching above everything, her brown hair whipping Joey’s round-cheeked baby face. And then a rock, a sudden jerk on thesteering, a wild tumbling off, and bodies flying everywhere. Cuts, scrapes, blood, tears. Mama running from the trailer house, her skirt gathered up high over long, shapely legs that never saw the light of day otherwise. It wasn’t permitted.
    The plane bumped over opposing air currents, throwing my head forward, bringing me to awareness. I pressed into the seat, into the memory again.
    Marah Diane stood up, pointing a finger, her hand clutched over her knee. Joey lay rag-doll floppy in the ditch water, squalling like a scalded cat, but there wasn’t a scratch on his chubby toddler body.
    “It was yer fault! It was yer idea!” Marah Diane’s voice was stark and sharp, like the persistent ovenbird calls that split the quiet of the mountain air. Tattletale birds , we called them because they cried out teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher . I hated the sound   —the ovenbird’s and Marah Diane’s   —more often than not. Everything between Marah Diane and me lay bound up in the not-so-silent battle of sisters. With the four of us kids stair-stepped, each two years apart, we were always squeezing each other, fighting for space, but Marah Diane and I were the worst.
    When the wagon crashed, I was mostly concerned about Joey. He was special, being a boy, and for as long as I could remember, I’d been given the care of whoever was youngest. My mother was just now starting to pay attention again.
    Mama ran to Joey first, passing by Marah Diane and her split knee. Coral Rebecca lay facedown in the road, hidden in the thick white-blonde frizz of hair that had given her the unusual name. She didn’t even bother to whimper. At three and a half years old, she just rolled over, sat up, and started looking at the damage. She didn’t like to call attention to herself. That was problematic, as she got attention everywhere she went because of her hair.
    “It was yer fault!” Marah Diane shouted again, anxious to figure out who would take the blame for