Chapter 37
The journal must be in here.
I stare into the dusty storage room and feel a certainty in the marrow of my bones.
I’ve searched the rest of the house, hitting every pillow and testing every floorboard. Looking under beds and the bottom of drawers. No police search team could do a better job.
So there’s only one place Rose could have hidden the journal.
The storage room and its thirty-odd, taped-up boxes.
If she left the journal here at all.
I shake my head and slip off the negativity. I can’t afford to think like that. No second-guessing or backing off. It’s raining a torrent outside, and I have nowhere else to go. I might as well use this opportunity.
Stepping in the room, I flip the switch and turn on the weak single bulb. This time, though, I came prepared. With a flashlight I found under the kitchen sink, a knife to slice tape, and a box of tissues for when I start sneezing.
The musty smell assaults my nose, and I almost reconsider. But then I recommit and move toward the right-hand corner. With the flashlight propped up and pointing down, I slice through the top of the first box I come to.
Linens sit inside, neatly folded and stacked. My first instinct is to set them aside and move on, but I stop myself from closing the lid. I can’t afford to be lazy.
I sift through the material, lifting out sheets and lace and napkins before squeezing each bundle and checking the bottom of the empty box. Nothing. Not in this one.
Exhaling, I glance around the room. At this rate, I’ll be here for hours.
But I need to know what Rose found out. What did she read in the journal?
Leaving the door standing open, I take the first box out into the hall. As soon as I clear a spot inside the room, I can shift the boxes around, stacking the ones I’ve checked in the empty corner.
The process is laborious, but checking off containers makes me feel productive. I go through toys, art projects, vinyl records. All the personal detritus we all collect in a lifetime. Again and again, like a well-oiled robot. Open, sift, clear, restack. Open, sift, clear, restack.
Many of the containers aren’t taped at all, simply held closed by overlapping flaps. Changing my plan, I focus on these boxes first. After an hour, I’m a quarter of the way finished and considering a bathroom break.
When I step back to survey my work, I kick into something hard.
The old steamer trunk.
But there’s no way the journal is hidden inside. I tried opening it last time, and the latches were locked. Weren’t they?
My memory from before plays in my mind like a film. I remember the navy-blue leather turned gray by dust. I see my hands reaching for the lock. And then I remember jumping when I saw the black spider.
But I tried to open the trunk. Didn’t I?
Uncertain, I kneel down. The two latches on the end are open, but when I pull the one in the middle, it’s locked tight, my fingertips scraping over rusted brass. Rusted. Could it simply be seized by the rust and stuck in place?
Pressing the fingers of both hands in from each side, I pull with all my might. The latch doesn’t give.
I need oil from the kitchen, or a pump of hand soap. Or maybe a few good knocks will loosen the rust.
My sinuses are swollen from dust and my eyes filled with grit, so I want the journal to be inside the trunk. I want to have an excuse to get out of this room.
Annoyed and exasperated, I give the trunk a swift kick.
Something makes a soft thud.
That sound didn’t come from inside the trunk. Something fell and hit the floor. Behind the trunk.
Stepping closer, I shine the light into the space between the trunk and the wall. There, in the corner.
My head rushes and I blink three times, almost afraid to believe what I’m seeing.
A book.
The journal.
It has to be. This is Rose’s hiding place. Why else would a book be lodged behind an old steamer trunk? A trunk shoved into the corner of a storage room?
I can tell the gap is too narrow for my hand, so I spend another minute muscling the heavy trunk away from the wall. When I think I have enough room, I reach for the crack—freezing up when I picture the spider’s tickly black legs.
Clenching my eyes almost shut, I shove my hand down and pull the book free. Even before I shine the light on the cover, I know it’s dark blue. Just as Alice said it would be.
Light-headed, I wipe my palm down the cover. I’m desperate to see what’s inside, but also afraid of failure. What if it’s just a misplaced copy of a classic tale? Or an address book that outlived its usefulness?
Holding the flashlight steady, I balance the book on top of the trunk. I take a deep breath. And blow it out. Then I turn to the first page.
Today, Father told me a family secret.