The memory of the dream surged into her brain, and though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she pressed her hand to his chest and lifted to head to look into his amused brown eyes.
Eighteen
Sam hadn’t thoughthe’d sleep a wink last night. After going through a ghost—literally through it—his nerves had been strung so tight he thought his skull might crack under the pressure. That was why he’d offered the couch; he figured there’d be no sleeping anyway.
But when Erielle whispered that she didn’t want to be alone, he hadn’t been able to refuse. He’d seen her grit her teeth through plenty of hard things already, but nothing like the raw helplessness on her face last night. That look undid him.
He hadn’t expected her nearness to calm his own fear. They’d gone to sleep holding hands, needing that connection, and he’d woken up with her in his arms.
He’d never forget the feel of her pressed against him, warm and limp with relaxation. With trust. She didn’t trust easily—and he couldn’t blame her—but she’d turned to him in her sleep.
But now they returned to the scene of the crime, as it were.
As they mounted the steps to the house, Erielle still in the pajamas she’d fled in last night, he remembered they hadn’t locked the back door before they left. He barely remembered whether they’d closed it. He hoped no one had taken advantage of that.
If they had, God help them.
The lock clicked under Erielle’s key. The door swung easily, with none of the resistance from last night. They looked at each other in silent acknowledgement of the ghost’s power.
The painting hung on the wall. No surprise. What did surprise him was that Erielle walked over, lifted it from the nail, and marched into the kitchen with it. She set it on the table, face down, and studied the brown craft paper covering the back. She poked a hole in it with her finger, then dragged her finger around the perimeter, ripping the paper off.
Behind the paper, a notebook, an old leather-looking thing, was secured to the back of the painting, which wasn’t canvas but wood. That definitely would have hurt if she’d hit him with it the first time she found him in her kitchen.
“What made you look behind there?” he asked. She’d seemed so focused, she had to have a reason.
“I didn’t know I’d find anything. I just wanted to see who the artist was. I couldn’t see it because of the frame. I’d thought about it last night, but it was late..” She peeled the notebook from the back of the painting, leaving a yellow tape residue on the wood. She dropped into a chair, set the notebook on the table, and opened the aged paper gingerly. Then let out a gasp.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s—it’s not in English. It’s the symbols from the wall. At least that’s what it looks like to me.”
He sat beside her and turned the book toward him, squinting to read the faded ink on the browning pages.
She tapped the inside of the cover. “This name—it’s Angeline Michel. My grandmother’s name was Angeline.”
He looked up at her. “Do you think it could be hers? Do you think she put the carvings on the windows?”
Erielle opened and closed her mouth as she reasoned this out. “I don’t know. I guess I could ask my mom what her maiden name was. But if it was hers, why would she hide it in here?”
“What is it?”
“I mean.” She looked through the pages carefully. “It looks like recipes. Lists. Instructions.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Was she secretive about her recipes? Enough to put them in some kind of code? And then hide it?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s what it is.”
“But look at how it’s formatted. Doesn’t that look like recipes to you?”
He had to admit it did, a list followed by a paragraph. “Maybe you’re thinking that way because you’re a chef.”
“I don’t know. I’m going to go get my phone, see if we can figure out what language it is, since we have more to go on than just the symbols that were on the windows.”
He flipped carefully through the fragile pages of the book as he waited, hearing her steps overhead. She was braver than he was. After last night, he wouldn’t have gone up there alone.
She returned a short time later, dressed and wearing shoes, carrying her phone in front of her like it could read the notebook on its own.
“What language do you think this is?” she asked as she sat, opening an app on her phone.
“I can’t tell. Russian, maybe? Kind of looks like the Cyrillic alphabet?
