Ingrid knelt next to the bookshelf. The set was twenty-six books. One for each letter. Some of the books were thin, others thicker. Ingrid began pulling out the books one by one. Billy joined her and helped. Billy slid the V book off the shelf and opened it.

He showed it to Ingrid.

A hollow rectangle was carved out of the pages, the exact size of a journal.

Billy showed the book to Markus.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “I never would have looked there in a thousand years.”

The excitement over finding Jennifer’s hiding spot quickly faded. There was nothing in there.

They were all silent for a good twenty seconds, then Markus said, “Bob’s.”

Billy and Ingrid looked at him questioningly.

“When Bob and my mom got divorced, he went out and bought the exact same encyclopedia set. In fact, he set up our rooms exactly the same as they were here, so the transition would be easier.”

Ingrid said, “So, you’re telling me that at your stepdad’s house, there is the exact same encyclopedia set?”

All three understood what was as stake. If Jennifer whittled out a hiding spot in a book here, what was to stop her from doing it at Bob’s as well?

Markus nodded and said, “Yes.”

—

Bob was out of town with his new wife, but Markus had a spare key.

Markus was telling the truth, his bedroom was a near replica of the one at his mother’s house. However, Bob moved the set of encyclopedias from Markus’ bedroom to a small study.

Ingrid moved her hand over the V book.

She slid if off the shelf and opened it.

She showed it to both Markus and Billy and shook her head.

::::

“She didn’t carve out a place for her diary?” my dad asks.

“No,” Ingrid says, then adds, “At least not in the V.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book.

“J for journal,” she says.

I fight back a smile, and ask, “Were the photographs inside?”

Ingrid nods and hands me the book. It is an inch thick, the heaviest book I’ve ever held.

Ingrid says, “I have to warn you, the photographs are upsetting.”

“I don’t think I can get any more upset.”

“Not for you,” she says, trying not to look at my father.

I flip the book open. There is a rectangle carved out of the pages, deep enough to hold a journal three-quarters of an inch thick. Resting in the space is a stack of four-by-six photographs.

I pick up the first and glance at it. It is thirty years old, the colors drab. It is a picture of a man and my mother walking down the sidewalk. The next four are of the two in an alley. Kissing.

She was having an affair.