Dear Peter,

I don't know how to do this. I haven't had a journal in about . . . six years, maybe? Back then, I wrote about my friends and boys I thought were cute. Well, there won't be too much of that in here, don't worry.

Do you want to know why I'm really doing this? Well, I want to leave something behind for the people I love (That would be you) because it seems cruel to just disappear without a trace. Even just a little piece of someone is better than nothing at all, right?

You're only, what, three right now? I know it seems too early to be able to tell, but I already know. You're going to be me, and Aiden's going to be Bailey. Just you wait, it'll happen.

I'm actually on my way to visit you right now. I don't know if you know this already, Peter, but your Aunty has a pirate ship now. And guess what? It's going to be your ship one day.

The Fina is beautiful. Maybe I'll take you for a ride on her sometime soon. I think you'll like the open sea. There's something calming about watching the waves from the deck of a ship that nothing can really replicate.

Petey I'm sorry if this first entry's a little jumbled. I'm just a little distracted right now. Can I tell you something serious?

Losing someone new is so much worse than missing someone you've known forever. When you lose an old friend, you miss the memories you've made, the good times, and everything in your life that they've changed. But when you miss someone new, you miss the opportunities. Everything that could have happened, but didn't get the chance to.

You would have had a new uncle, if the world wasn't so cruel.

Love you xx

       Aunty Olive

XXX

The engine of an old car rumbled below, vibrating the floor. Gray, bulky and noisier than a barrel full of pit bulls, Grandpa's car could not have been any more disruptive. Peter watched through the window, sighing deeply. This was only the beginning.

"As I was saying," Amelia said, almost shouting to be heard over the engine. "I don't think you should show him."

Peter nodded, turning away from the window. She tossed the leather bound book back at him, plugging her ears. God, couldn't he cut the engine now? He was already in the driveway. "Yeah, I don't think I will. Not yet, anyway."

Even if he'd wanted to share his discovery with his brother, Peter knew Aiden had locked himself in his room and would not be coming out until hell froze over or he got hungry. Whichever came first. Peter didn't see what he was so upset about. People attempted suicide every day. At least she'd been saved, right?

"Peter?" He realized that he'd blanked out. Blinking, Peter went to sit beside Amelia on his bed. At last the engine groaned to a stop.

"You say something?"

She nodded. "I said, do you remember her?"

Peter stalled for a minute before answering. He looked around the room, glancing over his blue curtains and creamy white walls, the sea green carpet beneath his bed, laden with sheets of cerulean. Nodded to himself. His room was quite nice, Peter thought, in comparison to the average thirteen year old boy.

He heard Mrs. Barns opening the door. Peter could imagine her waiting eagerly to greet his grandfather, a pale smile plastered to her face. He did his best to like Mrs. Barns, he really did. She'd been kind enough to start the adoption process when all the other foster mothers he'd had only lied, told him, "Oh, you're such a good boy, and that brother of yours too." But none of them would really adopt him. He'd figured it out long ago: the problem wasn't him. It was Aiden. Aiden, and his bee sting allergy and his Osteogenesis Imperfecta and his Cystic Fibrosis and his seizures. Honestly, Peter wouldn't have adopted a kid like that, himself.

The possibility of returning to his biological mother had gone down the drain years ago when Bailey's (He'd begun calling her "Bailey", just to show that he was over her) drug problem had surfaced. Part of Peter was relieved; the other part had sided with Aiden and was distraught.

They might have been able to go live with Uncle Brett, but he'd been in and out of the hospital since Peter was seven. "Damn cancer," as his aunt put it.

Peter wished he had cancer, sometimes. He wished he had a concrete, feasible reason for being so angry, so sad all the time. But there was no reason, except that he had no idea who he was. He didn't suppose most thirteen year old boys cried themselves to sleep some nights, or wrote poems about death in a notebook hidden under their pillows. But he did, and he didn't know how to stop.

He liked to go visit Aunt Olive's grave sometimes, just to sit and wish she was there to save him. She had before, hadn't she?

Amelia snapped in his face. "You're really out of it today, aren't you?"

He looked at her, too. The school year had just ended, and a summer tan was already creeping its way onto her face. Her hair hung sprinkled with blonde streaks, which blended into the strawberry tone of the rest of it. Peter frowned at her. "No. I'm fine."

"Well then, answer the question?"

"What was the question?" He asked, stalling again.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Do you remember your aunt?"

Peter sighed. He was going to have to do this at some point, wasn't he? Why not now? "Yeah, I do." Pausing, he took a moment to conjure her face in his mind. Whenever the image grew hazy, Peter would go and look through the thin photo album he had compiled of his family before the tragedy. Her long blonde locks and startling blue eyes were difficult to forget, though. "She was always doing something interesting. And she would let me and Aiden do stuff our Mom wouldn't. She was really cool. A little crazy, too, but isn't everybody?"

She nodded, her eyes softening to something between sympathy and curiosity. "Do you miss her, sometimes?"

"Yeah. Especially now." Peter stood, walking back to the window. The ugly car sat dormant in the driveway, now. He heard the front door open below. Peter closed his eyes and rested his head on the window. He didn't want to hear his grandfather's voice. He was probably drunk, anyway.

Amelia, full of surprises as ever, came up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders. It made him feel better in a way, but also made his heart beat five speeds too fast. Taking a deep breath, he scolded himself, what are you freaking out about? Chill.

They stood there at the window for a few moments, until Peter heard heavy footsteps crunching up the steps. He jerked away from Amelia, surging forward to lock his door.

"That's your grandfather?" she asked, whispering. He nodded, holding a finger to his lips. Hearing the fat old man ease himself up onto the second floor, he grabbed Aunt Olive's journal in one hand and reached for Amelia with the other. He lead her to the window, just beginning to unlock it when the man began to pound on his door.

"Peter?" The gruff voice called. "Open up for your old man, would ya?"

He slid the window open, hoisting himself over the opening. Landing shakily on the roof, he grabbed Amelia's hand. She straddled the window sill, looking down.

"Hey, I've got you," he promised, tugging her arm. Couldn't that man just accept that no one was going to answer the door? He did have to keep banging on the door like that. "Just jump down."

"It's kinda steep," she whispered, glancing at the shaking door. And she wasn't wrong. Peter could feel his feet slipping, another good reason why they needed to get going.

"I'm taking you to go see yer mom, Peter," his grandfather called. "I know you're in there. We aren't leaving without you." He didn't sound drunk, but you could never really know.

Amelia grimaced, giving the door one last glance before pushing herself out of the room, onto the roof. She stumbled, grabbing onto Peter's shoulders. They would have both gone tumbling down, if he had not latched himself onto the corner of the window sill. Steadying her with his arm wrapped securely around her waist, Peter shoved the window closed, cutting off his grandfather's yelling.

"C'mon," he said, taking his arm back. Peter sat down, beginning to inch down the incline of the roof. Amelia followed, sticking close behind him. When he reached the edge of the roof, Peter slid over the side, lodging his fingers under the pipe that ran along the side of the roof. Amelia did the same.

"So," she said, once they were hanging there. "What do we do now?"

For way of answer, Peter let go of the pipe. The thick June air parted around him, rushing past in a cold whistle. He hit the ground hard, landing squarely on his ass.

Amelia wrinkled her nose from the roof. "That hurt?"

"It won't for you," he said. "I'll catch you."

In an impressive show of trust, Amelia dropped immediately, landing with a small gasp of impact in Peter's arms. She didn't have time to recover, though. Peter grabbed her hand, pulling her to the edge of the yard, where the rose bush grew, nearly ten feet tall now. Taking the stick resting unremarkably beside the brambles, he pried open the door in the rose bush wall he'd cut years ago when he and Aiden had arrived here in Santa Fe, Texas. He'd liked Galveston better. Closer to the water.

Amelia followed him into his hideout, taking her usual seat on the frayed cushion at the foot of the oak tree that shielded the spot from rain and sun. Peter sat with his back to the tree ask well, exhaling deeply. Phew. That had been a close one.

"All of that just to get away from your grandpa?" Amelia said, giving him a sideways glance, accompanied by a small smile.

He shook his head. "Not just to get away from him." Picking up the journal, he said, "We have people to find."