“What’s going on?” I leaned against the doorframe and tried not to sound as exhausted as I felt.

Garrett didn’t turn around. “If you were trying to surprise me, maybe you shouldn’t have come down the stairs sounding like a wounded elephant.”

I stared at the library. Books lined the walls and only stopped for a window or a door. The turret along the front of the house spiraled up in the corner and let in plenty of light despite the encroaching trees.

“I’m proud of myself enough for the both of us.” My left leg had healed to the point it could bear my weight without too much pain. The bone was fine, but the skin itched and stretched where the stitches ran along my calf. I only hoped the scars wouldn’t be too noticeable.

“Color me completely unsurprised.” He sat at a wide work desk and looked through a lighted magnifying glass.

I hobbled into the room and rested on the arm of a threadbare sofa. This part of the house seemed fresher, more well-used than my dusty guest room. “What are you doing?”

He took a deep breath and leaned back. “I was working.”

“On what?” I took a few more steps until I stood behind him.

He waved his hands at the desk. An antique book lay open in front of him. The page on the left had crisp black ink on parchment. The right hand side was faded, the letters almost indistinguishable. Small pots of ink dotted the desk, and a wide selection of quills and fountain pens sat in a coffee cup to the side. A couple of books, their bindings frayed and worn, were stacked on the edge, as if waiting for their turn under the magnifying glass.

“This is why your fingers are black.” Ink.

“Give the lady a prize.” He glanced up at me. “What did you suspect?”

“I had two theories, really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mechanic or casual murderer who likes to dig the graves by hand.”

He laughed and shook his head, his shaggy hair giving off a clean shampoo scent. “Both excellent guesses.”

Something about his laughter sent my heart into a quicker rhythm. “So, you restore books?”

He nodded. “Collectors send me their treasures, and I get them back into good shape.”

“Seems really, um, tedious.” I scooted around him and sat on the edge of the desk. My leg needed a break.

“It is, but I enjoy it.” He leaned back and stared up at me, his face reverting to the usual look of serious disdain.

“You must have a lot of patience.”

He smirked and gave me a pointed look. “So it would seem.”

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

His gaze traveled down my body, and I wondered for the hundredth time what he was thinking. I wore a college t-shirt and shorts. Nothing fancy, but the way he looked at me made me feel as if I were wearing nothing more than skimpy lingerie.

I followed the line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the chest hair that disappeared into his shirt. His beard had grown on me, and I’d often found myself wondering what it would feel like against my skin. I chalked it up to cabin fever. Other than a few heated looks—looks that turned my blood into lava—he’d expressed nothing but irritation over my presence.

“How did you learn how to restore books?”

He met my eyes again, his pupils wide and dark. “You aren’t the only one with an education around here.”

I played dumb. “You went to school?”

“Yes. I have two degrees in history, and my dad always had a thing for old books.”

“So he taught you?”

He nodded, but kept his gaze locked with mine. “It was just a hobby for him. Something he did as a favor for book collectors or my mom.”

“Your mom?”

“This is her library. The books over there”—He pointed to a row near the back—“were her restored section. She had several first editions, and Dad spent years restoring a handful of them.”

For once, he seemed eager to talk. His parents were a fond memory for him, something that thawed his usually icy demeanor.

“What was her favorite?” I wanted to keep him engaged, his words alive.

He glanced to the bookcase and smiled. Actually smiled. He was handsome as a shaggy hermit, but when he smiled, he became irresistible. My heart cartwheeled, and I had the sensation of dropping down the first steep slope of a rollercoaster.

“Mom always had a thing for Alice in Wonderland. Dad found a beat up first edition. It took months, but he tightened the binding, freshened the ink, and then gave it to her on their thirtieth wedding anniversary.” His smile faltered. “That was the last time we were all together.”

“Your family?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back, his mood darkening by the second.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I kept trying even though the moment was lost.

“I need to get back to this.” He pulled the magnifying glass closer. “The collector expects it done within the month.”

I angled for more. “If you have a graduate degree in history, why don’t you teach?”

“I did.”

“Why’d you stop?”

He sighed. “How much longer do you think you’ll be here?”

All the warmth from only a moment before was gone. I swept away the stab of hurt. He’d been clear from day one that he didn’t want me here. Our brief conversation didn’t change that fact. Though a part of me wished it would, wished he would open up to me enough so that I could figure out if he could be trusted.

“A few more days, tops.” I needed more time to search the house, and my leg, though improved, wasn’t in hiking shape.

His cool smirk returned. “Now that you’ve shown me how very independent you are, tell me how you intend to get back up the stairs.”

I effected a nonchalant air. “I was going to look around down here for a minute. You know, start getting my pack ready for when I’m able to get back out there.”

“You want to snoop.” His hint of amusement encouraged me.

“Just look around. Exercise my leg.”

“Knock yourself out.” He bent forward and peered through the glass.

“Really?”

He didn’t respond, just plucked a fountain pen from the cup and began tracing the outline of antiquated lettering.

“Okay, I’ll just see you later then.” I pushed off the desk, and it shifted slightly.

He groaned and yanked his hand away from the book.

“Sorry.”

“Just go.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and leaned closer to the page. “And if you fall down the cellar stairs, don’t expect a rescue anytime soon.”

“Got it.” I walked out of the library, my limp abating the more I stretched my leg. Heading across the foyer, I entered a small sitting room.

The furniture seemed dainty, and the fine layer of dust covering everything told me this room hadn’t seen much use. A fireplace presided over one wall, the hearth a wide expanse of dark brick. I walked to it and studied the images set along the mantle.

The family matriarch and patriarch took the middle spot in a large photo. Mrs. Blackwood, her hair long and dark, smiled down at me as Mr. Blackwood looked over at her. His jaw cut the same sharp line as Garrett’s, and his love for Mrs. Blackwood still shone as brightly as it did when the picture was taken.

Another photo to the left showed the three children. Lillian wore a floral summer dress and dazzled with a bright smile. Garrett quirked one side of lips up, as if he were in on a private joke. His dark hair was a stark contrast against the white of the house. Hart wasn’t looking at the camera, his eyes focused behind the photographer, maybe on something in the woods. The three of them were a mix of their parents’ beauty, though Garrett looked the most like his father.

I reached up and ran my fingers along his face. Only a dark hint of a shadow hid his cheeks, which seemed fuller, his eyes brighter. How long ago had it been taken? Hart looked to be about fifteen at most, so it had to be five years old at minimum. When the photographer clicked his button, my father was still alive.

Moving down the row, there were more photos, some of them graduation pictures, others candid shots of the siblings. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of my dad, his eyes twinkling and his face scruffy. He wasn’t there.

I limped around the rest of the room and walked into the foyer. Garrett had closed the doors to the library, but I could sense him in there, bent over his work. I moved to the next set of open doors and found a living room with a flat-screen TV and some comfortable leather furniture. Books littered the side tables, and a laptop sat in a chair. I plopped down on the couch and pulled the computer into my lap. Garrett said for me to knock myself out. I grinned.

The computer wasn’t password protected, and I was on the web in seconds. Irritation percolated inside me when I realized I could have had a fully functioning phone via Wi-Fi over the past couple of days. Asshole.

I accessed my university email and ran through the few messages I’d received from friends and professors. Dr. Stallings had written me, demanding I call him as soon as possible. Maybe it was a good thing my cell wasn’t working. After flipping through the national news, I cleared my history and closed out of the browser.

My leg had enjoyed the break, but it was time to get moving. Pushing myself off the couch, I stretched for a moment then took off into the hall that ran along the side of the stairs. I peered into a dining room, the long table dusty and the chandelier dull. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and the dark mahogany walls sucked up what little light shot through the frilled curtain edges.

I kept exploring until I turned right into a large kitchen. Dated appliances and cabinets lined the walls, but they seemed to have been top of the line in their day. A wide butcher’s block took up the center of the room, pots and pans hanging above it on a silver rack. The white fridge had some basics—eggs, milk, butter, and lunch meat. I had an inkling that these items were placed there by Bonnie, especially given Garrett’s lackluster cooking abilities. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the height of his cuisine. The small pantry had a decent stock of boxed items and a few canned goods.

Slipping back into the hallway, I opened the door under the stairs. Simple wooden steps disappeared into the dark cellar. I felt along the wall for a light switch, but found none. Falling down the gloomy stairs didn’t seem like a good idea, so I closed the door and made a note to investigate once my leg had improved. A backdoor gave a view of the sunny yard, a rusted-out swing set grown over with weeds, and some sort of a gardener’s shed falling to pieces along the tree line. The woods were slowly reclaiming the property. How long before the house melted into the forest right along with its occupant?

Only one door remained. I turned the handle, and a rusty squeak informed me that the door hadn’t been opened in quite some time. Pushing inside, I found a woman’s bedroom. The bed, perfectly made, was covered in even thicker dust than the other rooms in the house.

Along one wall, a pile of trophies sat broken and upended next to a shelf. It looked as if someone had raked them all off with an angry sweep of their arm. I ventured farther inside, inspecting the rose bedspread, then the brushes, makeup, and knickknacks on top of the dresser. Lillian’s room, it had to be.

I’d researched her life. It was such an odd task—cataloging someone else’s achievements, failures, joys, and sorrows. She received a degree in theater from LSU, then worked for a TV station in Columbus. After that, she moved to Los Angeles. She was a ten in Millbrook County, Mississippi, but California had a different scale. I’d read a story in the local paper touting the beauty queen’s homecoming. Her Hollywood misadventure didn’t dim her in the eyes of the community. She returned and took over the local newspaper—her reporting ranging from crop failures to debutante balls.

I knelt and stared at the pile of discarded trophies. Several “Miss Millbrook” and “Miss Mississippi Queen” wins lay bent and broken, the golden angels atop them facing the floor—the fall of Lucifer in miniature. What happened here, and more importantly, why was it left this way?

Rising, I surveyed the rest of the room. Some of the decorations were girlish leftovers from Lillian’s childhood, while others, like the half-used birth control compact, were artifacts from her adult life. I crossed the daisy-shaped rug and flicked on the light to her closet. I stepped inside, the space shallow with clothes hanging on either side. Shelves lined the top with sweaters, jeans, and bags stacked in neat rows.

I ran my hands along the clothes, the empty hangers clicking against each other. Spreading them apart, I hoped to find a false back, a hidden treasure, anything that could point to my father. Nothing. The other side was similarly bare. I spun and leaned against the back wall.

Peering up at the clothes on the shelves, I spied a shoe box resting behind a high stack of sweaters. I had to stand on my tiptoes, my stitches burning, but I managed to snag it and pull it down. I hobbled out of the closet and sank on her bed, sending a plume of dust into the air. The specks floated in the rays of sun, an endless fall of particles painted orange. I flipped the lid off the box, and my breath caught in my lungs.

On the very top of a stack of papers, sat my dad’s Braves cap.