He hesitates for a second, like he’s debating whether or not to speak. Then he says, “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a lie. You’re obviously thinking of something.” I walk toward him, my voice sharpening with the frustration of not knowing something he clearly does.
His jaw clenches as he meets my gaze. For the first time since I’ve known him, I catch a hint of discomfort, a flash of something almost guilty.
“Years ago, a guy came into the museum. He didn’t care about any of the mermaid stuff, and it was off-season, so it wasn’t like wehad a lot of people around. He and my dad got to talking, and the next thing I knew Dad was letting him in the back room to look around.”
Something about his tone makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
“I was just barely in high school at that point,” he continues, “still trying to teach myself how to take care of all the items McCleave’s had collected over the years, but I knew enough not to just let some guy wander around unsupervised. So I stayed back there, watched him like a hawk. He walked around, taking in everything, but he only asked to look at one thing.”
My heart skips. “What?”
Wren pulls something from his bag, and my stomach flips when I realize it’s a dark blue archival box. He places it carefully on the desk and lifts the lid.
The scent of leather, dust, and something faintly musty wafts toward me as I catch sight of a book inside. It’s old, with a cracked leather cover that’s charred almost black in places. My heart rate quickens as I step back. “What is that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to read a single page of it. I didn’t think anyone could.” His voice is thick with frustration, his fingers gripping the edge of the box. “It was clearly in some kind of fire, and there’s water damage, too. The pages are stained, smudged... I couldn’t even tell how old it was. When I found it, wrapped in burlap, there was no info on it. No provenance. Nothing in the ledger. Best guess is my great-great-grandfather got it at an auction in the twenties.”
“But this guy... he knew?”
“I don’t know how he could.” He meets my gaze again, his eyesclouded. “He didn’t say anything. Dad and Tate came and went, but he just sat there at the table, not touching anything. Just staring at it for hours.”
My breath feels too shallow, like it’s trapped somewhere in my chest. “And then?”
“I had to leave for a few minutes, and when I came back, he was gone. I never saw him again.” His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel a knot twist in my stomach. “Until today, when you showed me that photo of you with your dad.”
The world shifts beneath me. Everything clicks together—too many pieces falling into place at once. “He must’ve thought... now you think...” I can’t wrap my mind around it fast enough. I lift my eyes to Wren, searching, but he just shakes his head.
I take a step back, trying to steady my breathing. “Okay, wait—let’s go back to the book. Is it a diary? Could it be another Kezia diary?”
He blows out a breath. “If that’s what he’s referencing in his notebook, I guess he could have taken pictures or something in those few minutes I was gone.” His tone turns skeptical. “But he would have had to spend every moment of the last four or five years trying to read it, and even then I’m not sure it’s possible.”
We both lean in toward the desk, our attention fixed on the cracked leather-bound book that looks more like a relic than a record, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. I think about those last few years, the space between me and my dad, the conversations we never got to have because of the possibility Wren is voicing. He shut himself off from so much, even ignoring the warning signs of the illness that ultimately took his life. A tightness creeps into my chest. It’s not something I can put into words yet, butit’s there. A small, unsettled feeling that follows me as I stare at the book.
“Where’s your dad’s notebook? Can we look at it?” Wren asks, pulling me back to the present.
I hand it to him, my fingers brushing his as I do, and I try to focus on that warmth even though I don’t follow him to the other side of the desk.
“Hey,” Wren says, his voice quiet. “You okay?”
I don’t respond at first, the question hanging in the air. Wren sets the notebook down and moves closer to me, his gaze steady. “Lili?”
It’s the first time he’s said my name just for me. The sound of it fizzes through me, quick and bright, like the first sip of something sweet and sparkling. It’s ridiculous how much I want to hear it again.
I press my lips together, pushing the feeling aside before it can turn into something I have to deal with. Instead, I focus on the book, on the thrill that’s been there all along. “Let’s see what’s possible.”
I open Dad’s notebook, while Wren slips on a pair of white gloves he also brought and carefully opens the other one. I turn page after page of atrocious handwriting that looks like a doctor was trying to write behind his own back. While running. I have to smile thinking about how some of Dad’s postcards had taken me literal hours to decipher, and those usually only contained a few lines. Looking at a full page makes my eyes want to cross. Occasionally, something stands out, if it’s repeated enough. The number forty-three, for one, and as I stare, something else.
I stop turning pages, the oddest sensation trickling throughme as I glance between the two books, like I’ve got my emotions crossed again and I’m not feeling the way I’m supposed to.
I know Wren sees it too because he lets out a laugh.
Most of the ink on the aged, faded page of the mystery book has bled beyond recognition, smearing and staining until the entry is all but lost. But in the corner, untouched by the damage, is a drawing of an intricately knotted rope.
My fingers tighten around the edge of my dad’s notebook as I stare down at the page I’d already been studying. Carefully sketched in the margin is the exact same knot.
It hits like a current—recognition, certainty,yes.
