“I found Nathan’s book,” I said, keeping my hand on her arm. “The one with your name in it.”

She shivered, a violent tremor that went through her entire body.

“He shouldn’t have kept those records,” she whispered. “He promised he burned them.”

“Why did he have records of your medication from nine years ago, Eleanor?”

She looked around the kitchen, her eyes darting to the dark windows as if she expected someone to be watching from the wet lawn.

The rain was starting to fall harder now, a steady, rhythmic drumming on the tin roof of the back porch.

“Come into the living room,” I whispered.

I led her out of the kitchen, away from the pantry and the dark cellar mouth.

We sat on the edge of the floral sofa, the fabric cold against my legs.

I pulled the leather ledger from under my sweater and laid it on the coffee table.

The gold lettering of the word *Ledger* caught the dim light from the hallway.

Eleanor stared at it, her hands twisting the hem of her nightgown.