It was penance, or perhaps, revenge.

I forced myself to pick up the third journal again.

I needed to know how far this went.

I turned to the final pages, written only a few months before she came to live with us.

*The cognitive decline is accelerating,* the entry read.

*She is starting to remember the house.*

*She is starting to talk about the things we buried.*

*If she tells Clara, everything is ruined.*

*I have to keep her close.*

*I have to keep her under my roof where I can monitor her.*

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the paper.

*What did they bury?* I thought.

What secrets did this modern, beautiful house hold beneath its polished surface?

I remembered the ledger I had hidden under the dining room cushion.

There was a connection.

I looked back down at the journal, searching for more answers.

*She belongs in the dark,* the last entry read.

*Just like she put me in the dark.*

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside.

My heart stopped.

I stood frozen, my breath catching in my throat.