Chapter 4: The Chimney Ledger
Clara walked slowly toward Eleanor, her eyes searching the older woman's face for any sign of a bluff. "What are you talking about? The historical society records state Thomas died in a shipping accident off the coast of Melbourne in nineteen-ninety-two."
Eleanor let out a dry, humorless chuckle that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "The historical society recorded what Arthur paid them to record. Arthur was a master of narrative. He bought the land, he bought the silence of the local authorities, and he bought me a comfortable life in exchange for playing the dutiful sister-in-law."
Maya shifted Lily to her other arm, wincing slightly at the child's weight. "Clara, look behind the loose brick on the left side of the hearth. That’s why Eleanor tried to stop you. Arthur kept his personal journals hidden there, but he changed the combination after his stroke. He thought he took the secret to his grave."
Clara dropped to her knees on the soot-stained hearth rug. Her cream silk shirt brushed the ash, but she didn't care. She reached out and pressed her fingers against the discolored stone Maya had indicated. It gave way with a satisfying click, sliding inward on a hidden pivot. Inside the dark cavity sat a thick, leather-bound ledger with water-damaged pages and a brass lock that had rusted shut.
"Give me the poker," Clara said, holding out her hand without looking back.
Eleanor didn't move. "You don't want to open that, Clara. Ignorance was the only thing keeping this household functioning. Once you read what Arthur wrote down, you won't be able to look at yourself in the mirror, let alone this house."
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"Hand me the poker, Eleanor," Clara repeated, her voice steady and absolute.
Reluctantly, Eleanor reached down, picked up the heavy iron poker resting beside the wood basket, and handed it to Clara. With a sharp, practiced strike, Clara jammed the tip of the iron tool into the rusted brass latch of the ledger. It popped open with a metallic snap, scattering flakes of green oxidation across the stone hearth. Clara pulled the cover back, revealing pages covered in Arthur’s cramped, obsessive handwriting. The first page was dated three days before the nursery fire.
