Olive flipped through the pages. There was something so wonderful and comforting about seeing her mother’s writing, touching the pages her mother had touched, reading her thoughts.

Many of the early entries were boring everyday stuff: hours she’d worked at the market, how annoyed she was with her boss, a funny story a customer told her.

Then things took a turn for the interesting. She was writing about Hattie, about the treasure. Mama was clearly searching for it.

About a month before she disappeared Mama wrote:

I feel Hattie leading me to it, bringing me closer all the time.

In another entry, she wrote:

If I can find the necklace, I’ll find the treasure. The necklace is the key.

On June 12 of last year, she wrote:

I hate lying to Ollie about all this, but I’m doing what has to be done. It’s the only way to keep her safe. I see that now. I’ve seen how desperate the others are, the lengths they’ll go to to find the treasure. “There is no treasure,” I tell my girl. “There never was. It’s just a silly story people tell.” I wonder if she believes me. My Ollie Girl, she’s my bright shining star, and something tells me she sees right through my lies.

On June 14, she wrote:

I’ve got it! I’ve got the necklace. It took a huge chunk of my savings, but money is no object now. If this works the way I believe it will, we’ll soon be rich beyond our wildest dreams!

Then another entry, the second to the last, dated June 28 of last summer, the day before she disappeared.

I have found the treasure! I left it in the ground where it was for safekeeping for the time being. I have made a map and hidden it well so that I won’t forget its exact location. But I no longer believe I am safe. I must move carefully. I must get Olive, dig up the treasure, and go quickly.

Then, the following day, the final entry of the diary, written in fast, sloppy letters, the ink badly smudged:

Dustin is watching my every step. He keeps asking me what I’ve been up to, what I’ve been so secretive about. “Nothing,” I tell him. The other day, when we were arguing, he grabbed my arm and twisted it hard, leaving a ring of bruises. He said if I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a lot worse than a hurt arm. “Sometimes people disappear,” he told me. “People who keep secrets.” My heart jolted. I’ve never been so frightened.

Olive’s hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry and sour.

What had her father done?