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RILEY FINCH TUCKED the journal under an arm and brought a cup of tea to the kitchen table. She rubbed her eyes. Below the sentence she had written was another message.
Who wrote this?
Riley traced the words with her finger, mind reeling as she considered possible explanations with a fresher—if not more rational—mind. The journal had remained beside her while she slept. Had Lucy come home instead of staying at her boyfriend’s? Even if she had, she wouldn’t come into Riley’s bedroom to play a trick on her. Lucy’s idea of a joke involved something embarrassing, not an elaborate mystery. And she didn’t have the patience to mimic this writing. Logic kicked in, reminding her that she also would have no means of planting the book within the archive. No, this wasn’t Lucy.
Riley returned to her original theory. This book was some sort of portal, and Jack Winston could write in it from the late nineteenth century while the book was beside her in the twenty-first century. She picked it up.
Solid.
Here and there? Now and then? How was this possible?
Riley froze. Was that a faint pulse she felt in the book? She let it drop to the table and ran to the bedroom to get ready for work.
THE JOURNAL AND ITS mystery weighed in Riley’s backpack as she pedalled to the museum. She needed to figure out how it connected her to this nineteenth-century detective.
After locking her bike in the staff bike room, she walked the hallway lost in thought. Should she respond to Jack Winston? What should she say? She nearly walked into a wheeled crate obstructing most of the hallway. Surely whoever was moving it would return shortly, but Riley didn’t want to leave it in the way of the next person to come along. This area was only accessible to museum employees, but walking away felt irresponsible. She spun the crate, searching for a label, and squatted to read the name. Nick Blume. She felt the reflex eye roll Lucy always called her on. Nick was also an archivist, a few years older than Riley. Her brow knotted into a frown as she wheeled the crate closer to the wall. Continuing down the hall, she slid her hand into the zippered pocket of her backpack, shoulders easing as her fingers grazed the journal’s cover.
As soon as she settled into the archive room, Riley pulled the journal from her bag. Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned to the page she’d read that morning. Pencil ready, she responded.
I am Riley Finch.
She closed her eyes. Now that she had left her name, there was no way to return the journal without the possibility someone would discover her writing within it. But she wouldn’t overwhelm Detective Winston with further detail about the situation—not that she was sure what the situation was. Riley tucked the journal into her bag, a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. She’d look for his response later. It was time to turn her attention to work.
The first box she started with contained a mix of files from the force’s earliest days in the late nineteenth century. Because the Vancouver Constabulary comprised only four officers when it started in 1886, they’d kept sparse records. As the force matured, so did their record-keeping. As she read, she noticed differences in the quality of detail in the later files, as if officers had learned they needed more than Theft. Water Street. Resolved.
The next files contained details about other crimes, including other missing men, though what she read suggested they were often men who skipped out on their bills as they passed through Vancouver.
Riley retrieved the Huntington file from its box. She sifted through pages of interview notes written in what she now recognized as Detective Winston’s script. The man was a new lawyer, already a partner at a firm bearing his name. Not long after Huntington’s body was identified, the case was closed, the death certificate in the file citing accidental drowning.
Many men had disappeared, and death near the water was likely a regular occurrence. So why did Riley find something puzzling about this case? Was it right to assume because he was a professional, he was unlikely to leave unexpectedly? Or to dismiss other missing men because they were visitors or came from different backgrounds? One note contained a passing reference to gold, followed by a question mark. The lure of finding gold certainly would have been attractive. The promise of hidden wealth in the North had drawn many men to early graves, but would it have been attractive to a young lawyer? Huntington’s family and status must have left him wanting nothing. Or was that predictable stability a greater incentive to find adventure?
Why not at least tell his mother his plans? What about the woman Huntington was fond of? Wouldn’t he share his plans with her? Why not at least send a letter?
Something niggled at Riley’s researcher’s instincts. Were there other missing men related to Huntington’s disappearance? Modern police were not always quick to link cases; how could a new force a hundred years ago do it without computer records? Something in Detective Winston’s journal suggested he wouldn’t have been satisfied with how the investigation had concluded.
Riley turned around, scanning the boxes and files around her. She pulled the journal from her bag and scratched a few more words, steadying her hand on the page.
I want to help you.
What had she just done?