Then she started to search the shed for this diary she’d heard them talk about tonight. Hattie’s diary, maybe?
She checked the shelves, the toolboxes, the old apple crates full of junk. No diary. She found old batteries, taps and buckets for sugaring, spools of wire, boxes of nails, old tire rims, but nothing resembling a diary. She spotted the giant pink tackle box her mother had used for her brief foray into beading. A few years back, Mama had decided it would be fun to make beaded jewelry and sell it at craft fairs and the farmers’ market. She spent a small fortune on supplies, then made only a few of pieces of jewelry (which she kept herself or gave to Riley—she didn’t sell any) before losing interest. Mama was fickle like that. Things held her interest only so long, then she was chasing after something new.
Olive reached up and lifted the tackle box down from the shelf, set it on the worktable, and opened it up. The top drawers were full of tiny compartments of beads all sorted by color and size. There were spools of nylon cord for stringing the beads and clasps, closures, and hooks. At the bottom of the main compartment were her tools: a small hammer, tweezers, pliers of all sorts. And underneath these, a leather-bound book.
Olive pulled it out and flipped through it, recognizing her mother’s tiny, sloped letters, her careful penmanship.
It was her mother’s diary! Not Hattie’s, but Mama’s.
Olive had had no idea that Mama had kept a diary. The first entry was dated January1, 2013.
Olive flipped through the pages. There was something so wonderful and comforting about seeing her mother’s writing, touching the pages her mother had touched, reading her thoughts.
Many of the early entries were boring everyday stuff: hours she’d worked at the market, how annoyed she was with her boss, a funny story a customer told her.
Then things took a turn for the interesting. She was writing about Hattie, about the treasure. Mama was clearly searching for it.
About a month before she disappeared Mama wrote:
I feel Hattie leading me to it, bringing me closer all the time.
In another entry, she wrote:
If I can find the necklace, I’ll find the treasure. The necklace is the key.
On June12 of last year, she wrote:
I hate lying to Ollie about all this, but I’m doing what has to be done. It’s the only way to keep her safe. I see that now. I’ve seen how desperate the others are, the lengths they’ll go to to find the treasure. “There is no treasure,” I tell my girl. “There never was. It’s just a silly story people tell.” I wonder if she believes me. My Ollie Girl, she’s my bright shining star, and something tells me she sees right through my lies.
On June14, she wrote:
I’ve got it! I’ve got the necklace. It took a huge chunk of my savings, but money is no object now. If this works the way I believe it will, we’ll soon be rich beyond our wildest dreams!
Then another entry, the second to the last, dated June28 of last summer, the day before she disappeared.
I have found the treasure! I left it in the ground where it was for safekeeping for the time being. I have made a map and hidden it well so that I won’t forget its exact location. But I no longer believe I am safe. I must move carefully. I must get Olive, dig up the treasure, and go quickly.
Then, the following day, the final entry of the diary, written in fast, sloppy letters, the ink badly smudged:
Dustin is watching my every step. He keeps asking me what I’ve been up to, what I’ve been so secretive about. “Nothing,” I tell him. The other day, when we were arguing, he grabbed my arm and twisted it hard, leaving a ring of bruises. He said if I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a lot worse than a hurt arm. “Sometimes people disappear,” he told me. “People who keep secrets.” My heart jolted. I’ve never been so frightened.
Olive’s hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry and sour.
What had her father done?
Outside, a car pulled into the driveway, the headlights spilling over the shed. Olive flipped off her flashlight, stood in the dark, listening. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps, then the front door of the house banging open and shut.
Should she run?
No. If she ran, she’d never discover what had really happened to her mother.
Olive grabbed the shotgun, loaded it, and started very slowly toward the house.
CHAPTER 43
Helen
SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
