And then the reader before her is pulling her attention away, and I know I need to leave now before I do something stupid like kidnap her in front of at least fifty witnesses.
No matter. She won’t be able to escape me now.
I’ve just found myself a little mouse, and I won’t stop until I’ve trapped her.
Chapter 3
The Manipulator
T his isn’t how I imagined I’d spend my Friday night. Digging around in the walls of an old-ass house with god knows what kind of creatures trapped inside.
I’m just waiting for a rabid squirrel to jump up and latch onto my outstretched arm, driven mad with hunger and willing to eat anything due to so many years being trapped in the walls, nothing but bugs to keep it fed.
My arm is shoulder-deep in the goddamn hole Greyson created, a flashlight held tightly in my grip. There is just enough space to fit my arm and part of my head in at an odd angle to look around.
This is stupid. I’m stupid.
The second I heard the door hit Greyson’s ass on the way out, I inspected the damage. It’s not a massive hole, but what gave me pause was the rather large gap between the two walls. At least three or four feet of space. And why else would it be built this way if there wasn’t a reason?
It feels like a magnet is pulling me towards it. And every time I try to pull away, a deep vibration travels through my bones. The tips of my fingers buzz with the need to reach out. To just look inside the fathomless void and find what is calling my name.
Now here I am, bent over and stuffing myself in a hole. Suppose if I couldn’t get mine stuffed tonight, I might as well get my action this way.
The flashlight on my phone reveals wooden beams, thick cobwebs, dust, and bug carcasses on the inside of the wall. I turn the other direction and point the light down the other side. Nothing. The webs are too thick to see much, so I use my phone like a baton and start tearing down some of them.
I swear if I drop it, I’ll be pissed. There will be no getting it back and I’ll have to get a new one.
I wince from the feel of the hair-like webs brushing across my skin, imitating the sensation of bugs crawling on me. I turn back towards the left and shine the light one more time.
I bat down a couple more cobwebs, ready to just give up and ignore the siren call that got me into this dumbass situation in the first place.
There.
A little way down the hall is something glinting off the light. Just the barest hint, but it’s enough for me to jump in excitement, knocking my head off the thick drywall and sending flakes tumbling down in my hair.
Ow.
Ignoring the dull throbbing in the back of my head, I rip my arm out and rush down the hallway, guesstimating the distance on where I saw the mysterious object.
Grabbing a picture frame, I unhook it from its nail and gently set it down. I do this several more times until I come across a picture of my great-grandmother sitting on a retro bike, a bundle of sunflowers sitting in the basket. She smiles wide, and even though the picture is black and white, I know she’s wearing red lipstick. Nana said she’d put on her red lipstick before she’d put on the coffee.
I pull the picture from the wall and stifle a gasp when I see an army green safe in front of me. It’s old, with a mere dial for the lock. Excitement burns in my lungs as my fingers drift over the dial.
I’ve discovered a treasure. And I suppose I have Greyson to thank for that. Though I’d like to think I would’ve taken these pictures down eventually for the sake of no longer having my ancestors look down on my extremely questionable decisions.
I’m staring at the safe as a cold breeze washes across my body, turning my blood into ice. The sudden freezing temperature has me turning around, my eyes sweeping the empty hallway.
My teeth chatter, and I think I even see my breath puff out of my mouth. And just as quickly as it came, it dissipates. Slowly, my body warms up to a normal temperature, but the chill down my spine lingers.
I'm unable to tear my eyes away from the empty space, waiting for something to happen but as the minutes tick by, I end up just standing there.
Focus, Addie.
Gently setting the picture down, I decide to brush off the weird chill and google how to break open a safe. After finding several forums that list a step-by-step process, I run off towards my grandfather’s toolbox collecting dust in the garage.
The space was never used for cars, even when Nana owned the house. Instead, generations of junk collected here, consisting mainly of my grandfather’s tools and some odds and ends from the house. I grab the tools I need, run back up the stairs, and proceed to force my way into the safe. The old thing is pretty shitty in terms of protection, but I suppose whoever hid this box here didn’t actually expect anyone to find it. At least not in their lifetime.
Several failed attempts, bouts of frustrated groaning, and a smashed finger later, I finally crack the sucker open. Using my flashlight again, I find three brown leather-bound books inside. No money. No jewels. Nothing of value really—at least not monetary value.
I hadn’t been hoping for those things honestly, but I’m still surprised to find none, considering that’s what most people use safes for.
I reach in and grab the journals, reveling in the feel of the buttery soft leather under my fingertips. A smile breaks across my face as I trail my fingers over the inscription on the first book.
Genevieve Matilda Parsons.
My great-grandmother—Nana’s mother. The very woman in the picture concealing the safe, notorious for her red lipstick and bright smile. Nana always said she went by the name Gigi.
A quick look at the other two books reveals the same name. Her diaries? They have to be.
Dazed, I walk to my bedroom, close the door behind me and settle down on my bed, legs crossed. A leather cord is wrapped around each book, holding them closed. The outside world fades as I grab the first journal, carefully unwrap the cord, and open the book.
It is a diary. Every page has an entry written in a feminine script. And at the bottom of each page is my great-grandmother’s trademark lipstick kiss.
She died before I was born, but I grew up hearing countless stories about her. Nana said she inherited her wild personality and sharp tongue from her mother. I wonder if Nana ever knew about the diaries. If she’s ever read them.
If Genevieve Parsons is as wild as Nana said she was, then I imagine these diaries have all sorts of stories to show me. Smiling, I open the other two books and confirm the date on the first page of each book to ensure I’m starting from the beginning.
And then I stay up all night reading, growing more disturbed by each entry.
A thump from below wakes me out of a restless sleep. It feels like being ripped from a deep, persistent fog that lingers in the recess of my brain.
Blinking my eyes open, I stare at my closed door, focusing on the faint outline until my brain catches up with what I heard. My heart is well ahead of me, the muscle beating inside my chest rapidly while the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
A cloud of unease rolls in the pit of my stomach, and it’s not until several seconds later that I realize the sound I heard was the shutting of my front door.