The clipping cuts off after that. To the right, no bigger than two inches, is a black-and-white smudge of a house that I’d know anywhere. A glamorous woman with finger waves and dark lipstick twists her hand in hello under a wrought-iron archway that spells falling stars hotel.

“I didn’t know it wasn’t always just a house,” I tell Wesley, stupefied.

“I didn’t know there was an elevator. When did it get taken out?”

“No clue.” That’s so fascinating to envision—an elevator here, in my house. “I wonder if it was still a hotel when Victor and Violet bought it. I think they’ve had this place since the seventies.” I keep using the present tense. “Or, they did have it.”

He doesn’t find this as fascinating as I do, evidently. “Weird location for a hotel. Who’d want to come all the way out here?”

“We did.”

He glances at me briefly, then scratches his jaw and lines up his screwdrivers in a neat row.

“It’s pretty here,” I point out. “Lots of hiking trails. Mountains to explore. I haven’t checked out all the nearby towns yet, since I’ve been so busy. Any good restaurants or shopping malls within thirty miles?”

“I hate restaurants and shopping malls,” he grumbles.

Jeez. “What do you like?”

If his scowl is any hint, Wesley doesn’t like that question. It takes him two seconds to disassemble the rest of the table, and after he hauls it outside, he doesn’t return.

* * *

• • • • • • •

BY EARLY EVENING, I can’t take being in the house by myself anymore. I have to get out. A painful lump that’s been rising up my throat since I found my old letters to Violet intensifies when I try to seek refuge in the cabin—her memory lingers there, too. Everywhere I go, a fresh wave of confusion or guilt or heartache follows, or a funny remembrance that sets me off-kilter because how can I laugh when it’s all so terribly sad, so I decide to pour all of my attention into her dying wishes.

Wish 2. Victor thought there was buried treasure out here but I never did find any. For the intrepid explorer, Finders Keepers rules apply.

“I’m going to go digging,” I call out to Wesley, who’s sitting in his truck bed with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I can only assume that the reason he’s not eating in the cabin’s kitchen is that I was just in there. He’s been avoiding me all week. Any time I walk into a room, he finds a reason to leave that room. When I try to make chitchat, I get crickets.

He stiffens with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Digging up what?”

I ignore him. A taste of your own medicine is healthy, now and then. To the garden shed I go! I’m surprised dust doesn’t shoot out in all directions when I open the door, since the groundskeeper around here obviously isn’t doing much pruning. Imagine being a professional groundskeeper and getting paid to make someone’s yard look worse. But inside, I’m surprised to find a tidy space. The door doesn’t stick. Someone’s been prowling around recently.

Wesley’s invested a fortune in insecticide, I’ll give him that. Along the dirty plywood walls are propped-up shovels, a million varieties of seeds, shears he doesn’t use, weed killer he doesn’t use, and a wheelbarrow piled with boxes. Shoeboxes, Amazon boxes, a round hatbox. I’m about to lift the lid of one when a shadow slips across my hands and it’s whisked away, over my head. A large body towers behind me.

I duck, letting out an “Aghh!”

An unreadable face scrutinizes me, but says nothing.

I drape a hand over my heart. “How do you keep sneaking up on me like that? Please announce yourself!”

Wesley places the shoebox on a shelf out of reach, followed by the other boxes. His face is tight as his eyes sweep mine, estimating whether putting the boxes out of reach is going to stop me. It is. I’m curious about them now that I know they’re off-limits, but scrounging up a stepstool sounds like too much work. Life is short, like me.

“Calm down, I’m only here for a shovel,” I explain, barely managing to grab one before Wesley’s silently edging me out of the shed without touching me, pushing a rake like a shuffleboard stick at my shoes.

Once we’re out, he slams the padlock on the door closed and spins its dial.

I raise my eyebrows. “Seriously?”

His eyes cut away, as though he’s bored, and he turns to leave.

“With an attitude like that, I’m not sharing any of the treasure,” I call to his receding back. “Unless you want to help? Do you happen to have a metal de—”

I give up. He’s heading swiftly back to the cabin, where I hope his macaroni and cheese is cold. A few beats pass. My hands are frustrated little balls at my sides, and it’s like being picked on by school bullies again. “I liked you a lot better when you weren’t you!” I yell once he’s a good distance away. If he hears, he makes no indication.

Thwarted, I survey the overgrown woods and chew my lip. Fine. I always end up doing the lion’s share of the work in group projects, anyway.

If I were a ridiculously rich person burying treasure (and you’d have to be ridiculously rich to pack some of it away in a hiding place), I’d bury it at the foot of a tree. I follow a trail into the woods, having barely begun but already tempted to write this off as a lost cause. Nearly three hundred acres of possible hiding places, and I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I dig random holes, sweating, the skin on my fingers angry from gripping the handle. I am going about this uneconomically. But if I’m not actively dedicating myself to what Violet wanted me to do, how can I justify accepting the house? I don’t deserve it. I haven’t written, haven’t visited, haven’t cried. I don’t have the right to be sad, either, since I was so flaky when she was still alive. I ran out the clock.