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a different kind of bird. After he died, other people started adding to her collection, so Mom ended up with a lot of bird statues. She loved them all, and she would sometimes take one out and look at it, smiling. I don’t think she liked the birds so much because they were valuable or anything. I think she liked them because they reminded her of people she loved.
    I get it, all in a flash. Boehm fig is a porcelain figurine. Boehm must be the company.
    Xander is peering through the glass in the cabinet door, tapping her finger on her chin, thinking hard. “Which one is missing?”
    For once, I’m the one to understand something before Xander does. “The lovebirds,” I say simply. I know that’s the missing statue because it was my favorite one. I used to look at it when I was little and imagine that the two birds were alive and flying in our living room.
    â€œYou’re right. Those damn lovebirds! They’re missing!” She whirls around and grabs my shoulders. “
Lovebirds,
Zen!”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean anything,” I say, but I sound a lot less certain than I’d like to.
    â€œOh, come
on.
Do I have to list the evidence for you?”
    â€œYou’re crazy if you think for one second Mom would do that!” I hiss.
    â€œDo what?” Dad has crept up from his basement bedroom, his hair matted on one side, his potbelly struggling to break through his dirty white T-shirt. I should hide all the peanut butter from him. It’s practically all he eats anymore. “What are you two talking about?”
    I look at Xander, waiting for her to come up with the perfect cover. She always does. “I was thinking we should look into how valuable Mom’s statues are. Maybe Mom meant to sell them someday.”
    Dad’s scraggly blond eyebrows mash downward. “We will never sell your mother’s birds, Alexandra.”
    Xander’s voice gets thready. “I don’t want to either. I was just speculating . . .”
    â€œMaybe a few of them are worth a hundred bucks. Most of them are worthless. Hardly worth having them appraised.” Dad seems offended. “Now I don’t want to hear talk of this again,” he says quietly before turning away.
    We watch Dad shuffle into the kitchen. Xander just stands there, totally ashamed. It serves her right for suggesting that Mom would have an affair.
    â€œThanks for coming to my rescue there, Zen,” she hisses. “Now Dad thinks I’m a grave robber.”
    â€œSo?” I shrug before heading back upstairs.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œTo bed.”
    â€œYou don’t want to know about this?”
    The question makes me extremely nervous, and I shake my head. “I don’t think I do.” I feel like Xander and I are wandering into an area where we don’t belong. I can almost feel Mom begging us not to go any further. I imagine her standing in the dark corner behind the curio cabinet, her hands clenched under her chin, mouthing the words
please don’t.
    Xander tromps behind me into my room and closes the door so Dad can’t hear. “Zen, we can’t let it lie.”
    â€œ
You
can’t. I can do whatever I want.”
    â€œAre you telling me that you’re fine with not knowing who John Phillips is and why Mom sent him . . .” She pauses, casting a sideways glance at my laptop. She sits down again, briefly examines the addendum to Mom’s will, and types some more.
    â€œCan’t you do that in your own room?” I say as I crawl under my covers. I’m suddenly achy and tired, like I’ve been racked with the flu.
    â€œAren’t you curious how much that statue is worth, Zen?”
    Xander’s knowing tone makes me look at her.
    My marrow feels cold, and I pull my knees up to my chest. “How do you know it’s the same statue?”
    â€œBecause the numbers here, ten-two-oh-three, that’s a