A red plastic badge read “Shelfmart” on the bottom and “Ava” in big black letters. There were photographs and lots of flowers cut from faded colored paper. Were these the things Tucker said I needed to learn who I was?
I pulled out a black and white notebook.
The words on the cover shook me to my core.
Trust only this handwriting.
This is the book.
Remember your life.
I flipped over my wrist. The words were so similar to this tattoo.
Why could I only trust this handwriting?
I flipped swiftly through the book, my eyes glancing off words.
Trust no one.
You were born in the year 2000. Anything else is a lie.
Living in the shelter has taught me one thing—men can’t be trusted.
Your journal is taped beneath the middle dresser drawer. Don’t let anyone find it.
I dropped the book and ran to the dresser to jerk open the second drawer. I felt underneath it.
There was nothing there!
I returned to the book, flipping quickly for another reference to the journal.
Your journal has been stolen.
My heart pounded so hard my head began to hurt.
Who stole it?
That man out there?
Men can’t be trusted.
What should I do?
I turned more pages, pausing when I saw a familiar name.
Big Harry’s Diner.
I scanned the page. I worked there. I had friends. It was one of the few places I felt safe.
I turned to the last page. A card was taped there.
Ava Roberts.
Last known address.
It listed numbers and a highway in Wimberley, Texas.
I stared at the closed door. Tucker told me on the ride home that we were in Austin. Not Wimberley.
