Still with the phone to my ear, I enter the guest room and pull down the hatch. The stuffiness hits me when I’m barely halfway up the ladder, and this is familiar. Memorial Day to Labor Day, the attic absorbed enough daytime sun to retain heat through the night.

“You okay?” Chrissie asks softly.

I sigh. “Just remembering.”

“Is it hard?”

“No,” I say, then, “Yes.” I could tell her about my father mistaking Joy for Margo, about Anne’s annoyance with me, about seeing Jack Sabathian. Chrissie would be able to place it all, I’ve told her that much. She’s a good listener. So am I, which is why I know about the growing pains in her marriage, her struggle to have a baby, and her mother’s resistance to her biracial husband and child. We give mutual therapy, Chrissie and I.

But the attic is mine. I need both hands and speakerphone won’t do. “Can we talk another time?” I ask.

“Of course. I’m here.”

“Dante and Kian good?”

“We’re good. Call whenever.”

“Thanks, Chrissie.”

After pocketing the phone, I gather the books from yesterday and return them to the shelving that holds the others. They fit neatly into their slots—1996, 1997, 1998. And yes, I wonder why he was looking at those. Of course, I wonder. But there’s so much else here, too. Standing back, I study the collection as a whole. It’s an impressive one, spanning forty years. Some lawyers would burn outdated diaries after a time. Not Dad. He kept every one.

Where to start? Well, here is 2000, looking no different from the others—same faded blue leather, same worn spine. This was the year Elizabeth disappeared. I wonder if he mentions it inside, if he gives a clue to something he hasn’t shared with the world. Slipping the book from its slot, I weigh the spine in my palm. I’m breaking a rule. But the cause justifies the means, right?

Quick, before I lose my nerve, I open to the center pages, where summer would be. The entries are sparse, but I remind myself that this makes sense. He was a judge by this time, so there would be none of the notes about client meetings or the billing records he kept in private practice. The notes of a judge relate to cases being heard, motions to read and rule on, meetings with lawyers in chambers. But this was summer. Big cases weren’t tried in the summer. Everyone—jurors, judges, clerks—resented being confined. A skeletal staff remained, and Dad was often on call.