Annoyed and exasperated, I give the trunk a swift kick.
Something makes a softthud.
That sound didn’t come from inside the trunk. Something fell and hit the floor.Behindthe 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 justa 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.
38
I need a break.
Closing the journal, I stare at the dancing flames in the study fireplace—stunned, shaken, sick. Horrified by what I’ve read, I curl into myself and try to block the images.
A man committing murder. Here. At Maison Marteau.
And a child following in his bloody footsteps.
I glance over at the door, willing myself to remain seated. I don’t need to check again. I know it’s locked.
Though I feel the monster right here beside me, crawling from the pages of a killer’s diary.
But whose? What child wrote the journal? What father led them down the path of depravity?
I pick up the journal again. Even touching the book makes me feel filthy, makes me want to wash my hands. But I’m desperate to know whose story I’m reading.
The paper gives me no real clue. A singe mark darkens one page, as if someone once tried to burn the book. Whether they changed their mind or were stopped by another, exposure to flame yellowed the paper. It’s hard to tell how old the journal actually is.
The handwriting is no help either, the lettering plain and simple, neither masculine nor feminine. And the quality of the writer’s voice, plain and direct. The only thing I’m sure of is that they were young when they wrote the journal. Too young to attend an adult party.
My stomach rolls as I picture a child watching their father do such terrible things.
And being thrilled by the sadism.
A long, torturous moment passes before I’m able to open to the last page I read.
Swallowing against nausea, I focus on the identity of the child. Proficiency in English is point of pride in the Marteau family. Any one of them could have written this journal.
Except Chantal. She married into the family, so she couldn’t be the author.
That leaves Vincent, Ric, and Lyam.
