My mission? To find out connections, papers, signatures. Something to give me clarity about what had transpired after my father’s death.

There were a few rooms surrounding the central patio. I peeked through the windows. One was a sewing room with a machine, a cutting table, and piles of fabric on top. There was a music room with a pianoforte and a phonograph, and the last room was a study.

My father’s study?

I glanced over my shoulder and opened the door. The lantern in the hall cast light inside the room. I picked up an oil lamp from the desk and explored the space. There were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves harboring what appeared to be an encyclopedia and several books in French.

On the cherrywood desk sat a wooden cigar box and a miniature sailboat. I opened the side drawers. There were several documents with my father’s signature, which appeared to be the same from the check. There was also an accounting ledger from last year. The bottom drawer, which was larger than the top two, was locked. I opened the center drawer to find the key, but aside from fountain pens and other office supplies, there was nothing of interest except for a leather-bound notebook. I pulled it out and sifted through the pages. It was a journal, it seemed, dated years ago.

I glanced at the door. How long did I have? Nervously, I flipped to the beginning of the notebook.

My father must have started this journal when he first acquired the plantation as he’d written observations about the vegetation found on the hacienda, the plants’ growth cycle during the seasons, a list of buyers, and other work-related information. As I turned the pages, I found charts, prices, and a variety of drawings of cacao pods and leaves. I was about to shut it when something caught my attention. Toward the end of the book, the writing was upside down. I shut the notebook and opened it from the back. Sure enough, he’d started another kind of journal from the back. On this one, there were long passages in French. I’d sat down to read when I heard a noise by the door.

I dropped the notebook inside the drawer as the door swung open.

“Don Cristóbal? What are you doing here?”

“Doña Angélica, you scared me! I apologize for my impertinence. I was just looking for some reading material as I suffer from chronic insomnia. I should have asked you.”

She strolled into the room, looking at our father’s desk.