Rolling my eyes at Lucas, I abandoned my phone again and stood, eager to let in some fresh air. This attic smelled like a tomb.

After putting Charlie to bed, I’d tromped up here with every intention of clocking in for my first day on the part-time job that came with every new house. Dad always paid me an allowance to tackle a few of the more menial tasks while he took on the grunt work.

At first glance, though, this attic, full of cobwebs and several decades’ worth of junk, had only inspired me to take a load off. Because, wow. This one was going to take a while.

Still, I had to start sometime.

Carefully, I picked my way over a pile of rolled-up carpets, heading toward the window. I had to yank the rusted crank several times, though, before the casement pivoted open with a teeth-jarring screech.

Spiced autumn air surged into the room, cooling my cheeks while the wind whipped at the short stretch of woods flanking either side of our winding driveway. The trees tossed their fiery arms this way and that with a low and traveling shhhhhhhh.

I leaned through the window overlooking the old iron fire escape that zigzagged up the rear of our house, and took a deep swig of the air that was fresher and cleaner here than it had been at our last house. Though the musty plant smell that rushed my nostrils promised rain, I hoped for Charlie’s sake it wouldn’t storm. She’d actually let me put her in her own bed that night, and though she kept glancing to her closet, she never mentioned her monster.

I turned and scanned the dancing-dust-mote- and junk-filled room for a good place to start.

Too bad I didn’t have a strong, awkward, and ghost-obsessed boy here to help me.

Grinning in spite of myself, I headed to the corner that held the most promising artifacts: a stack of old steamer trunks.

Grunting, I hauled one onto the floor, then I flipped the latches and opened the lid. Apparently, though, someone had already beaten me to this punch. The trunk, empty except for a child’s yellow-ribbon-wrapped straw hat and a smattering of papers and photos, had been looted long ago.

So much for treasure hunting.

I gave the papers a cursory once-over, and just as I was about to close the lid, one of the papers lining the bottom of the trunk—a photograph—caught my eye.

I dipped my hand into the trunk and withdrew the sepia-toned image of a wealthy-looking Victorian family. Posed against a nondescript backdrop, they seemed to watch me through the crackled window of time and space.

Well, three of the four figures did.

A pretty woman in an elegant lace gown with Gibson Girl hair held center place in the photo. A cute little girl who might have been eleven or twelve stood in front of her dressed all in white, her own hair done in braids. To the woman’s left stood a glowering man with dark hair and a matching handlebar mustache. To her right, there stood another male figure. A young man by the looks of his one visible hand. I couldn’t tell for sure because a black blotch that seemed to be part of the photo itself obscured the whole of his head.