I don’t take the diary out of my sweater until I’m back in my room.
The questions are swirling around my brain. How long was the diary sitting in there? Why was I the first person to notice its existence? And why did Victoria want me to find it? She doesn’t even know me.
I turn the book around in my hand, testing its weight. When I flip through the pages, I see Victoria’s careful writing in black ink filling page after page. The dates seem to span the course of the last two years. I notice the name “Adam” repeatedly in those pages. Which makes sense. If Victoria was keeping a diary, of course she’d write about her husband.
One thing is clear to me. Victoria wanted me to have this book. She wants me to read it.
I’ve wanted to learn more about Victoria, and it’s obvious she’s not going to be able to tell me her life story. This is my only chance to learn more about her.
So I lie down on my bed, crack open the book, and start reading.
