Chapter 19

19

My heart is doing split leaps. I hear a click—the door is unlocked. I can now enter this forbidden attic room and learn the truth about what is inside. I push the door open…

It's a small space, about a quarter of the size of our bedroom, and very musty, like it hasn't been cleaned or dusted in years. It has only a single window, which is cracked open. There are some boxes pushed against the wall and a mannequin with a half-finished dress sewn to its body. And now, for the first time, I realize why I have heard noises coming from this attic room. I understand what the source of the mysterious sounds has been.

It's a Roomba. With a cat riding on it.

The cat lets out a surprised yowl when it sees me. It hops off the Roomba, which is still navigating its way between the boxes and sparse furniture. The cat rubs against my leg, looking at me expectantly, and when I don't offer it food, it gives me a dirty look and leaps out the cracked open window.

Okay, then.

The Roomba is now stuck in a corner of the room, making frustrated whirring noises. I shift my attention to the center of the room, where there is a rocking chair facing away from me, overlooking that one tiny window. The chair keeps rocking, back and forth, back and forth. It must be moving because of the breeze from the window. Unless…

Is somebody sitting in that chair?

I quickly walk around the side of the rocking chair, and when I see that it is empty, I let out a sigh of relief. There is nobody in the rocking chair. The room is entirely empty except for the Roomba, which is now banging against the wall repeatedly. No live people, no dead people—only the Roomba and I guess sometimes a cat who likes to ride it.

But there is something in the seat of the rocking chair—a small notebook. It's dusty, but not as much as the other items in the room. It looks like it might have been used within the last week or two. Frowning, I pick it up, and as I flip through the pages, thousands of lines of my husband's messy scrawl stare back at me.

Oh my God. It's a diary.

Grant kept a diary . I wouldn't have expected that of my husband—because really, who keeps a diary these days?—but that's clearly what this is. And now I can read it and potentially figure out the mystery of why I keep seeing him everywhere I go. I'm going to read two or three pages every day—maybe even four pages if I'm feeling ambitious. I am certain this diary will eventually reveal the answer, although at the pace I plan to read it, it will probably take me a few months to figure it out.

Gingerly, I sit down on one of the boxes and start to read.