Her breath caught in her throat.
What in the world?
The inside of the book had been hollowed out, the pages cut away.
Instead of words, she found a book hidden between the covers of the encyclopedia.
Her heart pounded inside her ears as she removed the small book from its hiding place inside the larger one.
A black leather-bound volume with the wordDiaryembossed across the cover in gold. A thin black strap with a tarnished lock ran across the front. She pressed the tiny gold button on the lock and tugged gently.
It remained locked. Shut tight.
She leaned back on her haunches, chewing on her lower lip.
Who did this belong to?
She put the locked diary back into theCencyclopedia and removed the rest of the volumes from the ancient cardboard boxes, stacking them in alphabetical order,AthroughZ.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she began to open each volume, starting withA. She broke into a smile.
There, inside the hollowed-out center, she found a key, threaded onto a blue ribbon.
Fingers fumbling with excitement, she rushed to lift the cover on the next volume. The letterB.
A pang of disappointment stabbed when she found pages of smooth encyclopedia paper describing Babylon, bacteria, Barcelona, and bonobos.
She scrambled to open the rest.
Mhad been hollowed out and contained another small black diary. The next volumes contained regular pages ... until she got to the letterS. That one contained another diary.
She opened the last volume,WXYZ, and felt her mouth drop open.
Cash.
Gently, she brushed her fingers over a thin wad of ancient bills, held together with a rubber band.
What the heck?
She slumped back on her heels, staring in wonder. Could those nice old people who used to live here have been geriatric drug dealers?
Only one way to find out.
She inserted the key into the lock, opened the first diary, and began to read.
Chapter Six
Dottie
March 3, 1965
I had my last day at the office yesterday. They’ve called three times to ask me how the mimeograph machine works, and I miss it already. Not just the machine and the oddly comforting scent of the ink and the damp feel of the new copies. I miss Big Red, my IBM Selectric typewriter, too, whizzing my fingers over the keyboard faster than any other girl in the office. I even miss making the coffee on Monday morning when the account execs file in, except that the smell of freshly brewed coffee now makes me queasy.
I took one last run at Daddy yesterday morning. I went into his office by the sales floor and closed the door. He knew what I wanted before I even opened my mouth.
“Dottie. Please don’t.”
I sat down in the chair in front of his desk and tried to keep my voice steady. “But Daddy—”
