But now... now it was all here, and it had been here all along. He felt a hot streak of anger sear through him, filling his chest, his shoulders, his arms and legs. He was angry that these journals existed, and angry that he hadn’t known about it. Angry at Annie, angry at Helen, at himself. Why hadn’t he thought to look here? Why had he been so complacent and stupid?
“Have you read these?” he asked.
“Only a little. It’s a lot of stuff about her books. Did I do something wrong? I know Mom said I couldn’t read the books until I was ten, but you said I could take whatever I wanted—”
“No,” Whit said urgently, feeling the anger begin to leave him like air from a punctured balloon. “No, no, honey. Of course not. I’m so glad you have these things.”
He pulled her close to him, gazing at Merritt over her head.
She looked stunned. Not quite stricken, as he felt, but flabbergasted. And she was smiling. It was a soft, noncommittal thing, but it was certainly a smile.
“Thank you for showing me these,” Whit said after a while. “I’m going to take them for a bit, if that’s all right, but you can have them back after. Sound good?”
Annie nodded, though she clearly was still worried that she’d made a misstep. Whit hugged her again, this time fiercely, until the flash of anger he’d felt finished burning itself out.
Now the Moleskines stood in three wonky stacks on the kitchen table, with Whit and Merritt staring at them from chairs on either side. In the windows, the sky had gotten very dark.
“What do we do with them?” Whit asked, feeling suddenly childlike.
“You read them,” Merritt said immediately.
“I do?”
“Of course you do. Isn’t this what we’ve been looking for?”
“I guess so—”
“I’m sure she expected you to. And now you can look for any indication that Helen might have been okay with killing off Ursula. Or if not Ursula, Christabel or Rupert. Just some sign that it was on her mind. Or maybe evidence that it wasreally not. Both work, right?”
Whit nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Yeah.” Then, “I think I better...”
“Of course,” Merritt said, grinning almost too widely as she stood. “Let me know...”
She trailed off. Whit understood.
“I’ll let you know what I find. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Merritt said, still wearing that stage smile. “See you then.”
It took the closing of the front door for Whit to realize that he’d dropped his eyes back to the journals and Merritt had slipped out, unnoticed.
As she drove home through the heavy rain, Merritt cried. She cried and cried.
Whit started at the end. The last journal, the only one that was incomplete.
The first page said simply:
Book V
The Plan
The pages that followed were filled with several sections of disorganized lists and graphic brainstorming efforts and then, finally, a twenty-page, highly detailed outline, all in Helen’s achingly familiar handwriting.
Whit read this, spellbound, and found himself smiling, laughing, and letting out short sounds of approval and admiration. Even just in outline form, the last three pages made him cry.
When he finished, he set the journal down and looked around the kitchen.
