I sit on my bed frowning at the dog collar and chewing on my thumbnail. What does this thing mean? Why would the drowned man give it to me? It seriously makes no sense. I can’t help but think about Redd saying “possibly” when I asked her if I was going to be the one to die.

My cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and I jolt.

Alice: Takeout was a disaster. Food poisoning happened. Are you okay?

Mary: You’re welcome to come over. But fair warning that we’re paying homage to the toilet bowl.

I check the time: 10:27 p.m. Damn, I was really hoping seeing them would calm my nerves.

Me: Don’t worry. The drowned man story can wait. Just get some rest and feel better.

Susannah: Text us if you change your mind. Sleep is unlikely.

I drop my phone in my blankets. Crap. That means I’m gonna have to look for those family records alone. Or I could ask Elijah? No. Definitely no.

I slide off my bed and grab the flashlight out of my nightstand drawer. I make my way quietly into the hall, listening for my dad. There are no lights on besides the small sconces. He’s probably still downstairs in his office. And if he’s downstairs, then sneaking into the study isn’t the best idea. I guess I could start in the attic?

I tiptoe down the hallway where my dad’s room is and press the flashlight on. Mostly, the rooms at the back of the house are unused or have become a place to store extra furniture. But behind one of these doors is a staircase. I discovered it when I first moved in and made the rounds.

I stop at a door with a wrought-iron latch instead of a knob and unhook it. “Bingo.”

The signature musty smell that inhabits attics wafts out. I grab the wooden railing and latch the door behind me.

The room is bigger than the secret study and much less refined. There are boxes stacked in piles and loose floorboards. Nails stick out of the slanted walls at all angles like a torture device from the Dark Ages. Please, please don’t let me trip. The thing that’s noticeably absent, though, besides good light, is spiderwebs. Shouldn’t they be all over this room? I swear, if Elijah was cleaning the attic instead of spending time with me, he’ll have officially achieved a new low.

I shine the flashlight at the stacks of cardboard boxes. Most of them have labels like MATHER CHINA and CANDLEHOLDERS. Nothing so far that looks like it might contain old family documents. Against the far wall is an open wooden crate with about ten cloth-wrapped squares in it. Paintings? Hmmm. Waving the flashlight around me to be sure I wasn’t wrong about those spiders, I walk to the crate and peer inside. Yup, definitely paintings. All neatly packaged and tied up…except the one on the end.

I pull at the cloth, and it comes off in my hand. I almost drop the flashlight. It’s the painting. The one from the hall with the woman that changed.

A chill runs down my spine. Did my dad move this up here? Maybe I didn’t hide how creeped out I was about it? But still, wouldn’t he have said something? I look quickly over my shoulder at the musty room. Nothing’s there but shadows.

“So was I right? Are you Myra?” I ask the painting as I examine it.

I tip the frame forward and shine my light at the brown paper backing, looking for one of those note cards my grandmother sometimes used to catalog things. But I find a small plain envelope instead, taped to the bottom corner, and poke it tentatively with one finger. Nothing happens. I put my hand on it and leave it there for a second.

Seems safe. I carefully dislodge it, brace my flashlight under my arm, and open it, only to discover an older envelope inside. It’s written in my grandmother’s cursive and reads:

Letter to Grandmother Haxtun (Maria DeLong Haxtun) from her cousin Helen Hopson. Account of the Titanic disaster.

My heart beats faster. Aren’t letters like these supposed to be in museums? Could this be real? I carefully pull out the folded paper.

Monday

TWO HUNDRED TEN RIVERSIDE DRIVE

NEW YORK, N.Y.

Dear Cousin Maria,

Aunty Myra and Uncle Harry are both home safe and fairly sound considering all they have been through, which means that they are nervously tired out, though otherwise well.

When their ship struck the iceberg Aunty Myra saw the great wall of ice scraping along past her porthole for the lights were turned on still, and she knew just what had happened, so she got Uncle Harry + valet up to dress him. He had been so ill with grippe he had to be helped up and almost carried onto the deck. They made their way to an upper deck where were very few people, and were the last to leave that deck. Both were warmly dressed so did not suffer from exposure but the boat was so crowded all the men could not sit down, and in that state they waited and watched for the first steamer.

It was so clear that all through the night they could see stars so near the horizon they thought must be ships, lights. When daylight broke they seemed to be completely hemmed in by a field of ice and yet that other little steamer made straight for them. The people on it did their utmost to make things comfortable for them, gave up their beds, took off their clothes for them almost and saw that every thing possible was done to relieve their suffering. But I do feel that we have a true miracle come our way this time in having our own people so wonderfully saved.

Mother knows everything now, and has stood it very well, but the rest of us are pretty well worn out. You see we didn,t get any real news from them until Thursday evening just before they got home and what a relief it was!

I,m sorry this is so short + sketchy. Perhaps I,ll have time to write more fully later, and hope it hasn,t been so long either as to make your poor bruised head feel any worse.

Mother says to tell you that she means someday to send you a picture of my father and will try to find one of herself to send too.

This letter is a disgraceful one to send to anyone who writes such lovely ones as you do, but I didn,t want to wait any longer to send you even a scribble if it was a good news one.

Lovingly Helen T. H.

A board creaks behind me, and I whip around to find a black cat staring at me. It’s pear-shaped and squints at my bright flashlight. Is this a joke? I head for the stairs, full speed, letter in hand.

I take the steep wooden steps so quickly my heel misses one, and I slide down three of them on my butt. I land unceremoniously with a clunk in the hallway, holding the letter away from my body so I don’t crease it. The pain sharpens everything into focus.

I latch the door behind me and instantly feel guilty for leaving the cat.

“Sam?” my dad calls from what sounds like the bottom of the main staircase. “What was that noise?”

“Nothing. I just tripped! Don’t worry!” I yell back, staring at the attic door.

Of all the ridiculous…I’ll just run up, scoop up the cat, and come right back down. I grab the latch, and something moves by my feet. The cat walks right through the door and into the hallway, its fat belly swinging between its legs.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”