27

Keyanna

Despite the grand wake-up call Lachlan gave me, it didn’t take long after he left to fix the fence for me to remember what had me feeling so urgent last night. Between my grandpa cornering me and the stellar dream and the even more fantastical real-life version of it—I had sort of forgotten about the fact that Rhona had let it slip that I had been sleeping in my dad’s room this entire time. After telling Lachlan goodbye and having a bit of breakfast, I set to work effectively tearing the place apart.

But after an entire day, a small existential crisis, and pretending to have a stomachache so I could skip dinner, I can safely conclude that my dad’s old room doesn’t seem to be hiding anything extraordinary. I went through bins in the closet that I’m pretty sure weren’t opened since before I was born—I did find an old photo of a teenage version of my dad that seemed to capture a particularly bad haircut, making me laugh—I quite possibly broke the chest of drawers trying to find some sort of secret compartment, like this is another installment of National Treasure, and currently, I’m sitting in the middle of a pile of shoe boxes I found at the bottom of the wardrobe that contain—surprise—a lot of old shoes.

The room is a mess, but my head is even messier. When Rhona said that this entire time I’ve been staying in Dad’s old room, it felt important. Like the missing piece of a puzzle, almost. I was certain that somewhere within these four walls I would find the journal that I’m still convinced has to be on the property. Even if, after this little episode, I can’t deny that the doubts are starting to creep in.

Because what if he did bring it back to New York with him? What if he simply got rid of it? Lost it during a number of arbitrary moves? What if it simply wasn’t as important as my brain seems to have decided that it is? Any of these possibilities threaten to leave me feeling lost, because what else is left when it comes to finding a solution for Lachlan? What if I can’t fix things? What if I lose him too?

I feel the frustration bubbling up inside my chest, climbing higher into my throat, almost choking me. For the second time tonight I feel the sting of tears, and this time, I don’t try to stop them from falling. It feels good to let them out, to allow the physical manifestation of my stress to slide over my cheeks and down into my lap—and I tell myself that after this pity party of mine, I’ll pick myself back up. After this, I’ll somehow manage to tighten my grip on my own determination.

But for now, it kind of feels good to fucking cry.

I just can’t stop thinking about Lachlan just…not coming back in the morning. What would I do if he never changed back? I know that I would carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life—that no matter how short a time I’ve had him, I’d feel the loss of him forever. It makes a squeezing sort of pain grip my chest just thinking about it, making it harder to breathe.

There has to be something. There just has to be.

I’m wiping my eyes when I hear a soft knock at my door, and I swipe at my cheeks more frantically before bidding them entry, realizing that I probably look like I’m having some sort of breakdown—which to be fair, I guess I kind of am—sitting here in such a mess while quietly weeping.

“Key?”

I sniffle, using the heel of my hand to rub the last bit of liquid from beneath my eyes. “Oh. Hey, Brodie.”

“I heard you from the hall…You all right?”

I want to laugh, but I’m just too tired. I shake my head instead. “Just having a bad day.”

“Oh.” His mouth turns down in a frown, and I can tell that he’s not used to dealing with a crying woman. The poor guy looks like he’s wishing he’d walked past my door now. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, blowing out a breath. “Or it will be. Just having a little ‘woe is me’ moment.”

He nods, eyeing the open bins and the stacks of papers and random items scattered around the floor. “You…looking for something?”

“Looking for something,” I echo. I do laugh then, but it sounds bitter. “You know when you get an idea in your head, like an itch or something, and you can’t think about anything else until you scratch it?”

“I…suppose?”

I gesture my hands around the room. “This is my itch.”

“I see.” He eyes me warily like I might burst into flames at any second. “Anything I can help with?”

I chuff out another sardonic laugh. “Not unless you’re clairvoyant and haven’t told me.”

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “Can’t say that I am.”

I bob my head in a nod. “Figures.”

“Rhona said you weren’t feeling well,” he says.

“Oh, I…” I give him a sheepish expression. “Honestly? I just wasn’t feeling like socializing this evening.”

I consider telling him the truth, that I’m up here destroying my room in search of Dad’s old journal, but I can’t for the life of me think of one rational reason as to why I would be so desperate for it without hinting at Lachlan’s dilemma. And that’s just not my place. Especially given that Lachlan has just started coming around to the idea of letting Brodie help at all.

“Aye, I get it.” He nods idly, letting his eyes sweep around the room again. “Well, if you need anything, you just give me a shout, yeah?”

I offer him a smile. “I will. Thank you.”

“None of that,” he says, waving me off. “You’re family.”

You’re family.

Fucking hell. Between Rhona and Brodie, this family is determined to make me weep all night. Next thing I know, Finlay will be coming up here to give me some family heirloom and read me a bedtime story.

“I know,” I tell him, my voice just a little thick. “But seriously, thank you.”

He nods again, grinning slightly. “Good luck righting all of this”—he gestures to the mess—“before Rhona sees.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan.

He chuckles. “Too bad there’s not a magic button for that, aye?”

“Yeah,” I snort.

I heave a sigh when he closes the door behind him, leaving me with my chaos. It occurs to me that I will need to get all of this put back where it was if I want to avoid having to make explanations to Rhona, and seeing the mountain of mess before me—it’s a daunting task. Especially without the adrenaline of thinking I was seconds away from finding something like I had earlier.

I sigh. It really is too bad there’s not a magic button or something.

It takes a few seconds for the thought to settle, and when it does, I go still, my mouth falling open. I look around at the piles and the stacks of things laid about haphazardly, and I wonder to myself if I’ve been going about this the wrong way.

Maybe you are a bloody hound.

You’re not a dowsing rod.

I can hear Lachlan in my head, but I can’t help wondering: Could I be?

I rush to my feet, careful to avoid any piles so that I don’t trip—the last thing I need is to give Lachlan more ammunition for his assertion that I’m clumsy—closing my eyes and trying to steady my breathing. I can remember that day in the old Greer castle, the way it felt in that secret room. The strange connection I felt to something I still can’t quite name.

I search for it now, hell, I fucking beg for it—chanting nonsense in my head, pleading with whatever force it is that’s found me to just give me something.

Come on, I urge silently. Where are you? I know you’re there. I can feel it. Just give me this one thing. If you never do anything else for me, just let me have this one thing. Come on. Come on. Just show me where you—

I gasp when I feel it, that pulsing thread of energy that calls to me, whispers that I do something. I don’t even care that it’s vague and doesn’t offer any real instruction, too thrilled with the fact that I found it, that I’m another tiny step closer to getting a handle on whatever it is that came to me when I came here.

I spin on my heel, feeling something calling to me from…the floor? I wrinkle my nose, frowning. There are papers scattered about, sure, but unless they’re somehow torn-out journal pages that are written in code…

I fall back to my knees, swiping the papers away. Beneath them, there is only the solid wood floor that is scuffed and ancient and has probably been here for more years than I can comprehend—too neatly laid to house any kind of secrets, I think. Too perfect, really, even in its ancientness. There’s no way that there’s—

Then I see it.

A hole in the wood that’s no rounder than a finger, sitting at the corner of one neat plank that’s almost tucked completely under the bed. Standing, you wouldn’t even notice it. I drop to my belly and crawl under the bed, teasing the hole with the tip of my finger and feeling a rush of excitement when I find empty air beneath.

My heart begins to drum heavily inside my chest as I hook my finger and start to try and work the board loose, the wood fighting back, no doubt having sat untouched for more than two decades. It creaks and groans and tries its best not to give way, but after a minute of tugging and cursing under my breath, the board comes loose, revealing a hollow compartment beneath.

And there it is.

Cracked leather, yellowed paper, and all. It’s bound with a frayed strap of separate leather, and I pull it out as gingerly as I can, not wanting to damage it. I sit up and cross my legs as I turn it over to study both sides, seeing nothing particularly special about it, but I can feel it, oddly. That same energy, that connection that led me to it. Like whatever strange magic that lives inside me touched this once too.

I carefully unbind the leather strap, knowing I should probably wait for Lachlan but simply too impatient to do so, grinning maniacally the entire time I’m opening the thing until a loose piece of paper falls from inside the cover—old but not nearly as old as the rest of the journal. It’s on notebook paper, for God’s sake. And when I see my dad’s handwriting, something I would recognize anywhere even though it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen it—the air gets trapped in my lungs.

Mum,

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this. I’m not even sure if I want you to. If you read what’s inside this journal, you’ll know the truth of why I left, and I don’t know what’s preferable—you being disappointed in me for leaving, or knowing with certainty that I left because I’m a coward.

Maybe one day I’ll find my courage, but know that I didn’t leave because of you. Not really. I couldn’t bring myself to test fate, couldn’t make peace with not knowing what was to come—so I left. For her. The story in this journal is entirely true. All of it. Of that much, I’m sure. And that’s why I couldn’t take a chance. That’s why I had to leave while I still could.

But one thing has been, and will always be, certain.

I love you.

Duncan

I’m sobbing again. It seems like that’s just the theme of the evening.

Seeing my dad’s words, hearing his voice in them, especially knowing what reading this would mean for Rhona…it’s too much. I clutch the letter to my chest, not even sure how I would begin to explain it to my granny so that I could share it, but I’m so full of grief at this moment that I can’t bring myself to think that far ahead. There are too many questions. Too many things I don’t understand.

So I left. For her.

What did he mean by that? Did he mean my mother? He had to, right? And what does she even have to do with this? I can’t possibly fathom what connection she might have to everything I’ve learned—about me, about Lachlan, about our history—but I know that the only way to find those answers is to read the journal, whenever my hands stop shaking, that is.

It looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.