“She could have a doorcam or something,” Nate said in a low voice.
“Well, she’s not monitoring it now,” Stevie replied.
Even though there was no one around, it seemed like a bad idea to go through the front door. There was a side one, which was a bit more private. Stevie guided Nate in that direction as she dug around in her bag and pulled out the nitrile gloves.
“Snap ’em on,” she said, handing a pair to Nate. “Feels good.”
She got out her wallet. She had a debit card, which she needed. She had a credit card, which was largely a joke; still—better to preserve it. Her Ellingham ID was sturdy, and she would be getting a new one anyway in the fall. She pulled this one out and wiggled it into the crack in the doorway.
“It’s really that easy to open a door, huh?” Nate said.
“You’ve seen me do it before.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to think that’s because the Ellingham locks are old and shit. I wanted to believe houses are more secure.”
“The theater of security,” Stevie said. “Believe what you want.”
The lock popped open gently, and Stevie opened the door, and then the two of them stepped into the darkened house. Stevie had crept through private spaces before, even ones recently vacated by people who had met unfortunate ends. She hadn’t done this a lot, but that she had done it at all was notable. Ellingham Academy had afforded her many bespoke experiences.
The last time Stevie had entered this house, she had come in through the kitchen. This doorway led into a lower level of the house, a furnished basement that Allison had turned into a home gym. From here, they headed up the steps, emerging in the hallway with the many framed photographs. Outside, the first pops of fireworks sounded in the distance.
“Happy Independence Day,” Nate said.
The Sabrina room, as Stevie was now calling it in her head, was behind the closed door at the end of the hall. She considered turning on the overhead light but opted instead to use her flashlight out of an abundance of caution. She shone it around, trying to find the large turtle. It wasn’t where it had been. Nate, meanwhile, was looking along the shelves.
“What is this?” he said. “Hairbrushes? Old pencils? This is—”
“The work of a grieving sister,” Stevie cut in.
“. . . from a horror novel.”
Stevie did a full three-sixty, scanning every surface.
“The turtle is gone,” she said. She considered for a moment, then it hit her. Allison’s reaction had been profound when Stevie had shown her the list of art supplies—she’d been so touched that she immediately took Stevie over to Paul Penhale’s veterinary office.
“She figured it out,” Stevie said. “She moved the turtle. We have to find it.”
They began upstairs, since they were already there. The bathroom was easily eliminated. Allison’s bedroom was perhaps the most awkward place to go, but Stevie pushed down any discomfort. Surfaces first—the turtle wasn’t on any of the bedside stands or bureaus. She had a quick look in the closet, where everything was tidily hung or shelved. No turtle. Nate looked under the bed and otherwise peered unhappily around the room. They gave the linen closet a cursory go-through. Nothing.
They headed back downstairs as the fireworks were starting in earnest outside. They could see trails of light past the tree line outside. Nate was sent to check the living room, while Stevie headed back into the kitchen. She found what she had come for soon enough—the turtle was pushed back into the corner of the countertop space, where a cookie jar should go.
“Gotcha,” she said, lifting it up and sitting with it on the floor behind the kitchen island. “Nate! In here!”
Nate joined her in the kitchen and sank down next to her on the floor.
“Keep a light on it,” she said, setting down her phone to pry the jar open.
It did not open.
“Cookie jars have rubberized sealing rings,” she said. “You have to . . .”
She grabbed the edge of the turtle’s shell and pulled harder. Nothing. She pulled once more. She felt something give ever so slightly. Once more and she got another wiggle.
“Maybe it’s rotted or something,” Nate said.
Stevie sat back and considered the turtle for a long moment. It was cheerfully painted in bright greens and yellows and had a small, satisfied smile. It was a nice turtle, made by someone who cared for it. Which was why the next part was unfortunate but necessary.
“Sorry, Sabrina,” she said.
She stood up, glanced along the countertop, opened a drawer or two, and found a marble rolling pin. She brought it down on the turtle’s back, hard.
“Or you could do that,” Nate said.
The shell broke into three large pieces. She removed them, revealing a decayed rubber ring and a hollow space for cookies. But instead of cookies, there was a small, soft-backed red book with the year 1978 written on the front in gold script.
“The truth in a shell,” Stevie said quietly.
The diary had curved into the shape of the jar with time and it was stuck when Stevie tried to get it out without damaging it, so she had to break the turtle’s head and one of his legs off for wiggle room to get it out. Once you start to break precious ceramic turtles, you might as well keep going.
Aside from bending it, the airless jar had kept the diary in good condition. It was dust-free, dry but not brittle. Stevie opened the cover with care. The first page made it clear what they had found.
PROPERTY OF SABRINA ABBOTT
“I’m never questioning you again,” Nate said.
Stevie turned the curved page to the first entry.
JANUARY 3, 1978
Welcome, 1978. Nice to meet you. Time to crack open this fresh new diary I got for Christmas. I like that this one has a plain red cover this time. I liked the Snoopy one from last year because I will always love Snoopy and nothing can stop that, but this one is more of what I’ve got in mind for the future.
“We’ve got it,” Nate said. “We should take it and go. We’ll read it back at camp.”
She read on a few more sentences.
We went back to school today after the holiday break. There was talk about delaying the opening because of Michael Penhale, but apparently it was too complicated so we went back at the normal time. I can’t believe it’s been two weeks now since Michael died. I went in with a few student council people.
“Stevie . . .”
“Yeah,” she said, shutting the book and putting it in her backpack. “Yeah . . .”
He put his hand over her mouth. She widened her eyes in confusion, then she realized why he had done it. There was the unmistakable sound of someone opening the front door.
People in mystery and suspense novels were always talking about how their heart was in their throat. Stevie now understood precisely what that meant—she was experiencing something that felt exactly like that, a big, throbbing knot wedged right in there, making it feel like she might barf or breathe blood or choke. Nate had, for some reason, pancaked himself on the ground, like he was pretending to be a kitchen rug. Then, realizing this was not the move to make, he got up on all fours. Stevie put out her hands in a don’t move position and listened to see what she could understand from the noises.