“Your father was a child too,” I said.
“I know. He knows. But knowing something and believing it are different.”
We walked through the small living room and kitchen. There was no sign that anyone had lived there recently, though the house had been maintained. A stack of firewood sat near the stove. On the kitchen counter, a ceramic bowl held pinecones.
“The upstairs room is at the end of the hall,” Lucas said.
I looked at him.
“Do you know what’s in there?”
“No. Dad always kept it locked.”
“The key?”
He removed a ring from his pocket.
“This one was in the box.”
The smallest key fit the lock.
Before turning it, I remembered my mother’s warning and Douglas’s mother’s note.
“Neither of us should go in alone,” I said.
Lucas nodded.
We climbed the narrow stairs together.
The room at the top was not large. A single window overlooked the lake. Dust lay over the floorboards, but the furniture had been arranged with care: a writing desk, a wooden chair, and several shelves of books.
