I raised an old photograph high, holding the snapshot dated 1854 up against the current home. There used to be a window in the study. One year before Smith met Roberts. I swiped through the pile of pictures in my hand to 1855, the same year the two met through wrecking. There was severe damage to the third floor, and the scrawled handwriting on the photo saidhurricane season.
After the house was repaired, the window disappeared.
And I’d never thought anything of it until now.
Turning, I set the pile down on the nearby bench and picked up a large sheet of paper that had been rolled tight for too many years. I got down on the ground and flattened a copy of the original construction prints on the walkway. I ran my finger along the perimeter that became the study. Twenty-four feet in length. And the closet on the third floor, according to the 1853 draft, never existed.
Son of a bitch, amirite?
It was added to the house after the hurricane damage, and it wasn’t because the Smith family could use some extra storage for linens. I stood with the plan, letting it roll itself back up. I grabbed the photos and ran across the grounds, then up the porch steps to the back door. Inside, Herb was talking to a woman maybe a few years older than myself.
“There he is,” Herb stated.
I paused midstep in the foyer. “There’s—me?”
“Aubrey Grant?” the guest asked, giving me a once-over, like “oh this train wreck of a kid can’t be the manager.”
“Depends on who’s asking,” I answered, sounding extremely paranoid.
And she caught that, laughed a bit uncomfortably, and raised both eyebrows. “Lucrecia Kennedy. We spoke on the phone yesterday about Captain Rogers?”
“Oh.Oh! Ms. Kennedy! I’m so sorry.” I moved forward, fumbled the photos and papers to one hand, and shook hers. “It’s been a long day. What on earth are you doing down here?”
“I researched what you asked for last night,” she began. “And I found something that I simply couldn’t explain over the phone.”
“Really?”
She looked around the house. “This is quite beautiful. You’ve done a wonderful job with the property. Our little museum is nothing like this, you understand. Our staff… none of us are on-site historians.” Lucrecia looked down at the large bag in her hand. “But even I know this is important.”
Crap.
“Sure, come with me,” I said but didn’t move. “Anyone in the house, Herb?”
He perked up and shook his head. “Nope. Last tour left about ten minutes ago.”
“Good. Follow me,” I said to Lucrecia. I hurried to the stairs and took them two at a time to the second floor.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something important,” she called from behind, trying to keep up.
I reached the second floor and did a littlegross, gross, oh my God don’t think about itjump across an area rug that had been situated over the blood staining the wooden floor where Cassidy had died. “Nothing that can’t wait a few moments,” I called. “Sorry, we’re going up to the third floor. My office is rather nonexistent, and there’s nowhere else we won’t be immediately bothered.” I hustled up the next set of steps.
At the third-floor landing, I walked to the corner where the closet was situated. I set my piles down alongside some sheets of paper I’d been doing math on, a measuring tape, cloth gloves, and the printout of the missing topographical map.
“Reorganizing displays?” Lucrecia asked upon reaching the landing and looking over my shoulder.
“Something like that.”
She hiked up her skirt a bit and got down on her knees, opening the bag she’d brought. “Edward Rogers died in August of 1880. We have newspaper clippings verifying his passing. I never thought anything of it until you mentioned you wanted 1871 diaries.”
“Did he keep one?”
“Yes. We had it in storage. Tourists see one diary, they’ve seen them all, you know? But it’s empty.”
“Empty?”
“He signed the front page but never made a single entry,” Lucrecia clarified. She carefully removed a packaged leather booklet, exactly the same as its 1867 counterpart, which Cassidy had stolen. “And it doesn’t appear that he kept any others after that year—until this one: 1880.”
I grabbed my gloves to put them on. “Any mentions of Smith or Jack?”
