I set the letter on the coffee table and kneel in front of the shelf, pulling out the journals one by one.
They’re organized chronologically, at least, as far as I’ve been able to tell. The first one starts just after the Dust Bowl years, when her family first came west with a suitcase and nothing else. The last ends a few months before my mother died.
I pull the last one into my lap.
My fingers hesitate at the cover, pressing against the familiar leather.
The pendant is cool against my throat. I twist it, feeling the sharp edges of its tiny legs.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s see what you were hiding, Mabel.”
I open the journal.
Her handwriting covers the first page in looping, careful script. Weather notes. Hive counts. A mention of a neighbor’s cow breaking through the fence again.
I flip forward, scanning entries.
Most of it is what I remember, daily life cataloged in quiet detail. Honey yields. Crop notes. Comments about my father’s stubbornness. Occasional entries about me:
Abilene asked today if bees get lonely in the winter. Told her they keep each other warm.
My throat tightens.
I flip faster, letting the pages whisper past my fingers, until something makes me stop.
An entry dated a few weeks before my mother’s death. The ink is darker here, the words pressed harder into the paper.
Bonnie restless again. Talking about “what’s ours” like it’s a thing she can hold. Told her to let old stories die.
She doesn’t listen. Says Abilene deserves better. I told her better comes from work, not ghosts.
A chill runs down my spine.
My thumb moves lower on the page.
She brought up the inheritance. The “jewels.” Fool’s chase.
My heart stutters.
Jewels?
The letter’s words echo in my head:Your mother died looking for something she believed would save you.
My mouth has gone dry.
I flip another page.
The next entry is shorter. The handwriting more hurried.
Bonnie asked me again where it is. Told her there’s nothing left. She doesn’t believe me.
Thunder mutters outside, soft and ominous.
I turn another page, then another, searching for more. The entries skip a few days here and there. The next entry is from weeks later.
The handwriting is shakier, as if her hand wouldn’t cooperate.
Bonnie is gone. House is scarred. Elias is half a man. Abilene is a ghost in her own home.
