I stack the books on the floor and push the tablecloth off. But when I try to lift the hinge, the lid doesn’t budge. I kneel down and notice a small keyhole underneath the latch.

My gaze darts around the room, searching for a key, before coming to rest on my pottery clamshell on the window ledge. I made it for Gram two years ago, and she keeps it filled with buttons, safety pins, pennies, and random keys.

I try three of the keys before one works. Yes! My chest burns, and I let out a sigh of relief. The lid creaks open and I hold my breath, half convinced there might be gold hidden beneath piles of gems.

But there’s no gold. The chest falls open to reveal more books and some old papers. A plain black book with a gold lock rests on top.

Is this the book I need? I remember it being bigger.

I search the clamshell for a smaller key that might fit, but they’re all too big. I’m running out of time—Clay has stopped talking, and I can hear my heart beating in the complete quiet of the house.

I set the book aside and concentrate on putting everything back the way I found it. I have no choice but to take the book with me. I’ll find a way to open it, read what I need, and then put it back later. I doubt Gram ever looks in the chest, so it should be safe to keep it for a day or so.

The sound of her voice calling me from the kitchen makes me jump.

I run to the doorway and turn back to do a quick once-over. Nothing seems out of place. I head down the hall and tuck the book into my backpack before I answer.

“Here, Gram.”

She frowns, and I hold my breath. Does she suspect? I’ve never been able to hide things from her. She always senses when something’s wrong. But she has no way of knowing I’ve been in her room, does she? I wait for her to ask where I’ve been and why I look so guilty.

Instead, she opens the refrigerator and grabs the milk. Her hands are steady as she pours a huge glass and pushes it toward me. “Are you ready for the story about your dad?”

“I don’t drink milk,” I say, hesitant to correct her. Is she testing me? Can she tell I have the book?

“Oh yes.” Her mouth puckers for a second before she smiles. “I’ll drink it. Am I taking you riding today?”

She’s getting that empty look in her eyes again, and something in my chest tightens. “Later in the afternoon. After Clay wakes up,” I remind her.

She wrinkles her nose at the glass in her hands. “Why am I drinking this? I hate milk.”