Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“I’m not,” he says, looking terrified.
“He’s not, Santos. You may not like the outcome, but he’s not wrong.”
“I need to go.” I start to walk out.
“Wait.” Odin rushes to my side. “I need to talk to my sister. Is she at the house?”
“You can’t tell her. You can’t fucking breathe a word of this. I’ll fucking kill you if you do.”
“I won’t. It’s something else.”
I don’t answer his question. I can’t think about anything but what’s in that report right now.
“Your coat. You forgot your coat,” Rick says, shoving my coat into my hands.
I walk outside in a fog, climb into my car, and drive, and drive with that damned report on the seat beside me, constant in my periphery. I don’t want to see it. Think about it. I don’t want to know it.
Because if what’s on that thing is true, it changes everything.
17
MADELENA
I found the library a few days ago, but today is the first day I’m able to explore it. This house is almost like stepping into the past. I never know what I’m going to find when I walk down a corridor or open a door. The gothic style suits it, and the Augustine family has spared no expense.
The library is one large room that spans two floors. Bookcases line three of the four walls. Where the second floor should be is a catwalk, and on the ground floor is a sliding ladder to access the books on the higher shelves. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. The iron clad windows and what look to be antique leather reading chairs along with the smell of the place all scream history.
I will ask Santos how much of the room was intact when his father bought the property. I can see that some of the bookshelves are slightly damaged and have been repaired. I think they may be original to the house.
Santos left a while ago but said he’d be back for dinner. I am sitting in one of those chairs with a sketchbook in my lap, looking out at the early evening light, bracing myself. What Santos had thought was a diary hidden under the floorboards of my room is actually my first sketchbook. I brought it home with me after the memorial service.
I touch the front cover. It’s a cheap spiral notebook, nothing special, and the light blue cover page has faded over the years. I open it, my heartbeat hitching up as I do and see the first sketch. I was young when I drew it, and it’s childish but not bad. I don’t know why I drew this particular thing but I remember doing it. I was at the club alone after school while Dad attended a meeting. My nanny had been sick, and Dad was forced to take me along.
I still remember the moment clear as day even though it’s been years. As I sat at that table and tried not to see the lighthouse, I made a choice. I opened my notebook and from my pencil case, I took out a Hello Kitty pencil and sharpened it. Then, I made myself look at the hulking building in the distance. It terrified me. It always terrified me. But I made myself do it. I sketched the lighthouse.
That was the first time.
I drew it again and again and again over the years.
Every page you turn in this notebook is another sketch of the same subject. You can see my progression over time, but that’s not what I’m interested in. What is so powerful about this notebook is that I can remember all the feelings I felt when I drew each of these. It’s why I’d hidden it away as soon as the last page was filled up. I couldn’t look at it for a long time. But now, I find I want to.
A knock on the library door startles me, and I straighten as Jocelyn, the same woman who caught me coming out of Santos’s study the other night opens it. I don’t like her even though I know she’d just been doing her job when she reported that I’d been in the study.
“There you are,” she says. “You have a visitor.”
Odin comes in before I can ask who it is, and I stand as she retreats.
“This is a nice surprise.” I go to hug him, and he hugs me back, then takes in the room.
“Wow.”
“I know.”
He looks me over, eyes catching on the notebook at my side. He knows what it is and doesn’t mention it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, leading him in. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I needed to talk to you about something.”
“Okay. You want something to drink or eat?”
He shakes his head as we each take a seat on an armchair. “I had a meeting with Mr. Jamison. Do you remember him?”