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RILEY FINCH TRIED NOT to think about the journal as she walked to the museum the next morning. She forced herself to focus instead on the proposed development on a neighbouring street—the third in recent months—and questioned whether condo towers were the sign of progress and prosperity everyone seemed to believe they were.
What was the journal a sign of? Maybe she should return it now, without removing the underline she’d made on the new entry last night. Or keep it a little longer and return it unmarked?
Her throat constricted as she hurried up the museum steps. Gooseflesh formed on her arms in the museum’s cool, dark corridors after the warm spring sunshine. She paused to zip her jacket. Riley made a decision: she would return the journal to the box and move on with her work.
Feeling instantly lighter, Riley plucked the journal from her bag and flipped to the final entry to read it one last time. She closed her eyes and counted to three.
A new entry had appeared.
Today was long, but fruitful. I discovered H intended the gloves for a young maid working in the household of one of his acquaintances. Had he been preparing to run away with the girl, but something—or someone—prevented him?
Riley’s fingers closed around a pencil and moved past the sentence she’d underlined the night before. The knot in her stomach tightened with each letter as she wrote Huntington in the margin, dropping the pencil after it formed the final n. She couldn’t return the journal to its box today. She pulled her phone from her pocket and snapped another picture, this time ensuring she captured the entire page. Hands shaking, she closed the journal and slid it into her bag.
Deep breaths eased her pulse toward normal. Riley decided to spend the first part of the morning looking for more information about the detective’s case. After searching for an hour, she found a file with “Huntington” written at the top. She pulled it out just as the door to the archive room opened. Riley looked up to see Claire standing in the doorway.
“How is your review going?”
Riley followed Claire’s eyes to the stack of files resting beside her. “Well. Really well.” She nudged her bag with her foot to close the flap of a nearby box, hiding the corner of the journal. She gestured with her hands and nattered about the process she was following. Her eyes kept returning to the file, but she just kept talking. “I’ve made it through two boxes so far this morning.”
“You have scanned them all?”
“No. I’ve been checking the files against the inventory. I’m trying to note anything useful for the exhibit.”
“And have you found anything?”
Riley’s chest tingled. A scene played in her head: a declaration that yes, she had found something—a detective’s journal from the archive. In fact, she’d just made some notes in it. Fast-forward to the next scene: she descends the museum steps a final time, her head low, tears streaming down her face.
Claire narrowed her eyes. Riley needed to say something. She started slowly. “The city was rough. And filled with real characters.” She pointed to the folder in front of her. “I’ve found some files relating to a missing man.” Voice growing stronger as an idea started to form, she continued. “Maybe there’s some way we could follow an investigation.”
“I like that idea, but keep going. Bring me a couple of ideas to choose from.”
Riley pointed to the file. “I can keep an eye out for a good story. Should I keep following this thread?”
Claire nodded. “See if you find any shady tales. Everyone likes a good mystery.”