“No,” Eleanor whispered, shaking her head. “He has a spare. In the blue ceramic vase on the mantelpiece. He thinks I don’t see. But I see everything.”

I looked over at the fireplace.

On the far end of the dark wooden mantel sat the dusty blue vase.

It was a cheap piece of stoneware we had bought at a flea market years ago.

“Find them,” Eleanor urged, her voice cracking. “Read what he wrote about me. Read what he wanted to do to his father.”

Before I could answer, a pair of headlights swept across the living room wall.

The bright beams cut through the sheer curtains, throwing long, distorted shadows across the ceiling.

A car door slammed outside.

The sound was sharp and sudden, cutting through the drumming of the rain.

“He’s back,” Eleanor gasped, her face draining of what little color it had left.

She scrambled off the sofa, her knees knocking together under her nightgown.

“Go,” I whispered, grabbing the ledger from the table. “Go back to Lily’s room. Pretend you were sleeping.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.