“But…” I search for a reason that might reach her. “I trusted you with my secret. Don’t you trust me with yours?”

“Of course,” Gram says, shifting Clay to her other hip. “But I would rather remember happy things. That is better I think, yes?”

“What about the book in your treasure chest?” I ask. The words slip out before I can stop myself.

Gram stops and turns around, the lower half of her face hidden behind Clay’s head. “What book?”

“The one you showed me when you first moved here. You said it was about a girl from far away. Is it about you? Are you the girl from far away?”

“I don’t know of any book,” Gram says in a shaky voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go put your brother down.”

She spins around and rushes out of the room faster than I’ve ever seen her move. Clay waves sleepily over Gram’s shoulder as she practically runs up the stairs. I raise my hand to wave back while my mind races. Dad always said Gram’s mom and dad were the best grandparents ever, so why doesn’t Gram want to talk about when she was young?

And what about the book? Did she forget it, or is she lying? I know there’s a story there, and it could hold the key to understanding what’s happening to her now. What if I took a peek at it without her knowing?

I pace down the hallway and then back. I can’t snoop in Gram’s personal things. She’d never trust me again.

But… the Gram I know is slipping away. No matter how many times I tell myself she’s just tired, I know it’s more. I know it’s serious. What if this book is the only way I can help her?

When Gram goes to Clay’s room, I tiptoe to hers. I hesitate outside the door. Invading her privacy doesn’t feel right, but how else can I help her? I can’t do one without the other. Besides, she said she would give me the book one day. In a way she’s sort of given me permission.

I narrow my eyes at the old chest pushed against the far wall. A white lace tablecloth flows evenly down either side, with four giant stacks of books piled precisely on top. The cloth only just hides the battered wood of the chest.

It looks ancient. Just like a treasure chest.

Clay’s voice filters down the stairs. He always begs for an extra story. It’ll take at least half an hour for him to fall asleep, which is plenty of time to take a peek. I don’t need to read the whole thing—just enough to ask her the right kinds of questions.