I turn down a quiet street lined with thick trees and park under their canopy. She hands me her notebook and unlocks her tablet. “I’ve been looking over a few specific entries in her diary. The pages are in extremely poor condition, but beyond that, the handwriting looks different.” She lifts the center console, scooting into the narrow middle seat to give me a better view of the screen. “She normally writes very precisely, same letter height, same word spacing, but these”—she swipes through several photos and back—“are all almost messy. I mean, look at this one.”
I grab my glasses, willing my attention from Lili to the tablet in her hands. Thankfully, I see her point instantly, and happily shift into academic mode as I pinch the screen to zoom in. “It is different.”
Lili tugs on her bottom lip, alternating her gaze between me and the tablet. “It’s still her though, right? I mean, it looks like her handwriting, just—”
“—strange, but yeah, it’s still hers. Look at the swoops on theOs and the angle on theEs.” I indicate the letters, and she sighs in relief beside me. “And it’s one of, what, five pages in the entire diary that your dad didn’t even attempt to transcribe?”
Lili nods intently. “I noticed that too.” Then she looks up, all but brimming with excitement. “I guess it’s up to us.”
Twenty
Lili
A couple of hours later, I’m beginning to understand why my dad might have skipped these pages. The passages we’ve been able to partially transcribe are all from somewhat heated entries regarding escalating tensions between the American and British forces:
1776 Friday, February 9. The Congress have ordered that no Nantucket vessel be supplied with provisions unless they have a permit signed by three Justices of the Peace of Barnstable. Stephen Paddock has been off to get a number signed and came on today with them. Paddock tells that the Americans have got possession of Dorchester Hill, which commands Boston.
1776 Saturday, March 29. Hear there is an Act of Parliament to burn sink and destroy all American vessels.
1776 Tuesday, July 16. Sturgis Gorham came here this afternoon, had just come to the Island. Brings the Declaration of Continental Congress, declaring America to be free and independent States. Horrible! I wish they and all their well-wishers had been strung 50 ft in the air before they had been suffered so far to bring about their wicked and ruinous plans. I believe the only motive they have in view is to aggrandize themselves, they care not for their bleeding country; the Lord reward them according to their works.
Her handwriting gets even messier after that, her increasing anger evident with each barely discernible stroke of her quill. I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to dread what she might write next.
I don’t realize I’m voicing the thought out loud until Wren takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “A lot of people were upset about the war. That doesn’t mean they did anything more than write about it. But I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere tonight. The light isn’t great, and I feel like we might need the originals to figure out the rest of these words.”
He’s right. I’ve had the same thought for the last twenty minutes now, but hadn’t wanted to admit it. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re close to something though, something even my dad didn’t know, and that need to dig that I inherited from him is hard to ignore.
Reaching up, I switch off the bright overhead light, then take the tablet and turn that off too. There’s still moonlight spilling in through all the windows, but the sudden darkness feels intimate.
“We might not find what you want. You do know that.”
Goose bumps ripple over my skin at the sound of Wren’s voice, low and quiet in the dark. “Mitchell lied about the smuggler’s hole.”
“Yeah, she did. But smuggler’s hole or not—”
“—even Kezia’s own words aren’t helping us right now,” I finish for him, and let my head fall back against the seat.
He’s silent for a moment, then softly says, “What do you want, Lili?”
“Right now I’d settle for a magnifying glass and a good two-thousand-lumen lightbulb.”
I loll my head in his direction when he doesn’t say anything. My eyes have adjusted to the moonlight, and his serious expression makes me sit up straighter. “You know what I want.”
He shakes his head. “To prove Kezia Gardner wasn’t a smuggler?”
“Yes.”
“I just wonder sometimes.”
“Did you just admit to thinking about me?” I say it lightly, trying to brush off the tension building between us.
“More than I should.” His voice is a grumble, barely audible, making me question what I truly heard. Then, louder, he says, “I know you want to figure this out, and you made me want answers too. But do you wonderwhyyou’re doing this?”
I’m completely taken aback by that, so much so that I can’t answer right away. He lets the silence stretch, and I don’t know if I’m grateful for that or not.
Finally, he says, “Your dad, this was all his obsession long before it was yours, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s my history too.”
