And then there was the jewelry: gold rings, dangling earrings, silk chokers—but my favorite was a gold choker studded with big red gems that she wore in almost every photo.

The shoebox was empty when she died, and I never knew if she’d packed the stuff away or if the vampire that killed her took it. The jewelry had to be worth something.

But they didn’t get everything.

As soon as I was old enough to read, Mom started hiding the box. It became a game. I’d find it, and she’d catch me before I could get very far. But what she didn’t know was that each time I found it, I took a little something: a page from a journal or a photo. Never the jewelry, because she would have noticed that.

I’ve kept them all these years, but it’s been a long time since I looked at them. The pages were always gibberish to me, like maybe she was writing a novel or something. But they’re nagging at me now—enough that I open the shoebox and pull them out.

I pause over the pictures because I haven’t seen them in a while. The first one’s in color, with Mom in a deep-purple corset and miniature top hat on the crown of her head. She holds a white dove in her hand, and she looks about thirty years old. Next to her stands a man in a solid white suit with blond hair slicked behind his ears. It’s not Dad, though. The man stares at her instead of the camera. The other one is a black-and-white image of a man with a broad forehead and a slender, pointed nose. Chains drape across his body. Beside him, dressed in a huge, flowing skirt and a button-up jacket, is Mom. Her face is grim. It’s not a very good promotion shot, but that’s all it can be. I didn’t recognize the man when I was a little kid, but later on I did: Houdini.

My heart aches with the desire to ask her about the photo. I want to know all about the shows she used to do—did she copy Houdini’s tricks? Was that why she had this photoshopped? Why isn’t she smiling?

But those aren’t the answers I’m looking for right now. I shuffle through the four journal pages I have. I’m looking for the oldest one. The one with ink that looks like rust. I pull it out and read.

There’s nothing quite like the thrill of discovering a new talent and watching it morph into something stronger—something that takes their tricks and pushes them just beyond what’s humanly possible and watching the audience’s eyes widen as they try to figure out the secrets, and all the while, we’re smiling backstage, knowing they never will.