Page 43 of Haunting the Deep

“Nothing.” Jaxon stands up so quickly that I wince.

“Hold on. Are you mad right now?”

“No.”

“You’re pacing.”

Jaxon picks up my coat. “How ’bout we call it a night.”

My mouth opens. “What happened to wanting to help me figure things out? Was that all about kissing me?”

“Don’t be stupid. I just need…Let’s just go.”

“You want me to tell you things, be honest with you. Just not the things you don’t want to hear?”

He exhales and hands me my coat.

I yank it from his hands.

Isit on my bed frowning at the dog collar and chewing on my thumbnail. What does this thing mean? Why would the drowned man give it to me? It seriously makes no sense. I can’t help but think about Redd saying “possibly” when I asked her if I was going to be the one to die.

My cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and I jolt.

Alice:Takeout was a disaster. Food poisoning happened. Are you okay?

Mary:You’re welcome to come over. But fair warning that we’re paying homage to the toilet bowl.

I check the time: 10:27 p.m.Damn, I was really hoping seeing them would calm my nerves.

Me:Don’t worry. The drowned man story can wait. Just get some rest and feel better.

Susannah:Text us if you change your mind. Sleep is unlikely.

I drop my phone in my blankets. Crap. That means I’m gonna have to look for those family records alone. Or I could ask Elijah?No. Definitely no.

I slide off my bed and grab the flashlight out of my nightstand drawer. I make my way quietly into the hall, listening for my dad. There are no lights on besides the small sconces. He’s probably still downstairs in his office. And if he’s downstairs, then sneaking into the study isn’t the best idea. I guess I could start in the attic?

I tiptoe down the hallway where my dad’s room is and press the flashlight on. Mostly, the rooms at the back of the house are unused or have become a place to store extra furniture. But behind one of these doors is a staircase. I discovered it when I first moved in and made the rounds.

I stop at a door with a wrought-iron latch instead of a knob and unhook it. “Bingo.”

The signature musty smell that inhabits attics wafts out. I grab the wooden railing and latch the door behind me.

The room is bigger than the secret study and much less refined. There are boxes stacked in piles and loose floorboards. Nails stick out of the slanted walls at all angles like a torture device from the Dark Ages.Please, please don’t let me trip.The thing that’s noticeably absent, though, besides good light, is spiderwebs. Shouldn’t they be all over this room? I swear, if Elijah was cleaning the attic instead of spending time with me, he’ll have officially achieved a new low.

I shine the flashlight at the stacks of cardboard boxes. Most of them have labels likeMATHER CHINAandCANDLEHOLDERS. Nothing so far that looks like it might contain old family documents. Against the far wall is an open wooden crate with about ten cloth-wrapped squares in it.Paintings?Hmmm.Waving the flashlight around me to be sure I wasn’t wrong about those spiders, I walk to the crate and peer inside. Yup, definitely paintings. All neatly packaged and tied up…except the one on the end.

I pull at the cloth, and it comes off in my hand. I almost drop the flashlight. It’sthepainting. The one from the hall with the woman that changed.

A chill runs down my spine. Did my dad move this up here? Maybe I didn’t hide how creeped out I was about it? But still, wouldn’t he have said something? I look quickly over my shoulder at the musty room. Nothing’s there but shadows.

“So was I right? Are you Myra?” I ask the painting as I examine it.

I tip the frame forward and shine my light at the brown paper backing, looking for one of those note cards my grandmother sometimes used to catalog things. But I find a small plain envelope instead, taped to the bottom corner, and poke it tentatively with one finger. Nothing happens. I put my hand on it and leave it there for a second.

Seems safe.I carefully dislodge it, brace my flashlight under my arm, and open it, only to discover an older envelope inside. It’s written in my grandmother’s cursive and reads:

Letter to Grandmother Haxtun (Maria DeLong Haxtun) from her cousin Helen Hopson. Account of the Titanic disaster.