Please, God, let there be no one inside.

There wasn’t. I flipped on the light and eased the door closed. Frightened gold fireworks painted the ceiling, but then gave way to rolling oranges and yellows. I couldn’t feel my feet. It was so silent I could almost hear my own blood rushing.

I dropped the bags in the center of his desk and then stood there for a second, glancing around, hoping something would jump out at me. Fuzzy tangerine—my dad’s name, maybe. Or lavender—my mom’s. Glittery purple—the color of Hollywood Dreams—that I’d come to associate with the Hollis name without even realizing it. Even ice-blue Luna would be a welcome sight. Just something to let me know I wasn’t crazy. That I was on the right track.

Nothing. Not a single loose paper on the pristine desk; only a bookshelf full of books. Random colors popped out at me, like flashbulbs and balloons and floating bubbles, but most of them with the beige edges of boring business. Was it weird for a director’s desk to be such a void?

Frantically, I began opening drawers and scanning shelves. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

God. No. I could not come away with nothing. Not again.

I dropped down, flipped to my back, and checked the undersides of the desk and chair. Nope.

I stood, cursing, and was just about to give up, when a black-and-white word streaked across my consciousness. Journal. Tucked in with all the books and binders on the shelves, a thin red notebook with the word Journal printed down the spine.

I pulled it out.

Pay dirt. Where there were journals, there were secrets, right? At least that was always how it was in the movies.

Curious, I opened it, thumbing through the pages. It was more diary, or even activity log, than journal. Weird. Nothing personal. Just line after line of recorded activities. And there was something off about it that I couldn’t quite place.

8:10 A.M. AWAKE

8:22 A.M. SHOWER, DOOR CLOSED

9:10 A.M. BREAKFAST, CEREAL, DRY, COFFEE, CREAM, SUGAR, DIDN’T FINISH

9:30 A.M. STUDYING, OPEN TEXTBOOK, GEOGRAPHY

9:56 A.M. CIGARETTE BREAK 1, COMPLETE TO FILTER, NO BRAND CHANGE, DISCARDED BUTT SAVED, RETRIEVED, AND LOGGED

Damn, the blond man kept a boring-as-shit schedule.

But maybe knowing the kind of schedule he kept would be handy. Maybe there would be clues in later entries to tell me who he was. Maybe knowing his schedule would help me know exactly when his house would be empty. If I could ever find his house, that was. Either way, leaving with a boring journal that might or might not be useful was better than leaving with nothing.

I pulled up my apron, tucked the journal into my waistband, and scurried out of Pear Magic, leaving the Fat Sal’s bags on the blond man’s desk.