Page 83 of Licks

Then the writing changed.

The entries weren’t dated, but a page had been skipped and a different pen was used. These lines had been jotted down one at a time, across the page on a diagonal, as though written frantically. My anxiety mounted with each word.

I never really knew him.

He’ll never know about the baby.

In one night, they stole it all from me.

I didn’t know who “they” was, but dread clawed up my neck. He’d truly never known about me, the choice stolen from him because he’d hurt my mother. He’d done something bad with someone, my affair theory gaining steam. I flipped the page but found it blank. I flipped back and forth faster, the stuck ones almost ripping until I discovered one more written entry.

Secrets kill the soul. Both are now buried with my heart, on a hill, at the red rock where our baby was conceived.

That was it. Nothing else was written, but the words secrets and kill escalated my worry. The pages fluttered under my rapid breaths.

I’d known a major event had split my parents apart. Growing up, discovering the source had never been my priority. I’d been focused on finding my father, then the possibility of meeting a sibling. Whatever dramatic event had altered the course of my life had only been a background whisper.

It was screaming now.

August eased the book from my grasp and read the two passages. “It sounds like she’s talking about the lookout point, Tank Hill—I’m guessing that’s where you were conceived.”

Where August and I had slept last night. Where sex had happened. “Do you think she actually buried something there?”

“It’s cryptic, but possible.” He studied the diary, leaned so close his nose was practically in the book. “Pages are missing, a few cut out after her last note.”

I ran my fingers along the seams. The cuts were so clean they were barely noticeable. “If she removed these, believed she had to hide something, she could have buried them.”

She’d obviously enjoyed keeping a diary, had found the process cathartic. She would likely have detailed the events that had destroyed her heart. She might have buried them as a symbolic way to move on.

Secrets.

Kill.

My chill worsened.

“A time capsule,” August murmured, probably recalling the two of us digging up his back yard to bury ours. “You think Barbie-Man is in hers, too?”

I elbowed him, thankful for his humor. “Barbie-Man isn’t there, but I have a feeling my answers are.”

He moved to close the journal, but he stopped and squinted. “I think there’s…” Using both hands, he pried apart two corners I hadn’t realized had been stuck. “Something’s written here.”

I pulled his hands and the diary toward me. A small block of text was on the page:

I hope eleven years isn’t too late.

Below that vague line was contact information: one of those random email addresses that could belong to anyone ([email protected]), a phone number, and a Denver address.

“It’s like she wrote that to a specific person,” August said. “The other entries are more personal.”

I didn’t reply. Eleven years—something about the number rang a bell. I closed my eyes, ran through all I’d learned the past two days, fragments spinning, blurring. They rolled and rolled, until…

“The Greyhound employee.” I clutched August’s thigh. “He said the suitcase went missing in 2001. The diary and contents were from 1990. That’s eleven years.”

Like two synchronized swimmers, we turned our heads in time, slowly lowered our eyes to reread the new page. August tapped the journal’s edge. “Not sure what it means, but I think you’re right. The two timelines have to be connected.”

“More questions,” I mumbled, but the answers felt closer.

“We could call the number and see who picks up.”