“He locks me in the room,” she whispered. “He tells me the bad man is coming. He tells me I have to be quiet, just like he was.”

She leaned closer, the smell of stale peppermint and old dust rolling off her.

“He’s making me live in his memories,” she said. “He’s forcing me into the dark, Clara. He wants me to feel what he felt under those floorboards.”

“He’s punishing you,” I said.

“He says he’s keeping me safe,” she whimpered. “He says he loves me. But when he looks at me, I don’t see my son. I see Arthur.”

She grabbed my arm again, her nails digging into my skin through my sleeves.

“You don’t know what he is,” she whispered. “You don’t know what he keeps.”

“What does he keep, Eleanor?”

“The journals,” she said. “His little books. The ones from when he was ten. When he started to write down his plans.”

“Where are they?”

“In his office,” she said. “In the big desk. Under the floorboards behind the safe.”

“The office is locked,” I said. “He always keeps the key on his keyring.”