I never imagined one little secret would change the course of my life. No one believed me about what happened to my mom. The officers in charge of the investigation thought I was confused. The psychiatrist persuaded everyone I was delusional.

I never should've mentioned Bailean--my best friend. And a dragon.

Over the years I've tried to tell myself he wasn't real. I told myself the stories mom told me about Brindle, a hidden land, were only fairy tales. I almost had myself convinced. Then I inherited my grandmother's house in Vermont.

Now more and more memories are rising to the surface: the gleam of a king's golden belt buckle, iridescent scales, a haunting song. It's all connected to my mom and the events of that afternoon in our New York apartment. It terrifies me.

I want the truth about my mom. About everything. Is the truth different for me than it is for other people, or is the truth the same for everyone? Is the truth what my dad or doctors insist, or found in the fairy tales Mom used to tell me?

Or is the truth a whispered voice from deep inside that no one else can hear?