Grandma Ginny’s funeral takes place two days after I arrive. The whole family takes the trip up to Siskinoa, Washington for it, 30 miles northwest of Spokane. It’s a town with a population size of 6,000 and is run mainly through the power of ma and pa shops. It’s where Grandma Ginny was raised and where she insisted on living until the end of her life.

  On the drive to her cabin, we pass through the historic downtown, established in the 1890s. There’s a festival that happens here in the spring, the Siskinoa Railroad Festival— a century-old festival that now commemorates the town’s early industrialization and its status as one of the oldest train stops in the state—which I often went to as a kid. Grandma Ginny would buy me an old-fashioned vanilla ice cream cone and we’d watch a parade of floats go as I sat on a lawn mower in front of Uncle Thomas’ hardware store. Uncle Thomas has since moved to Spokane, and his store has been replaced by a diner, but the town looks as old and fragile as it ever did.

  The road up to Grandma’s cabin snakes along the side of a large hill, and although Siskinoa lies far east of the Cascades, it’s nestled among a large range of hills, and it takes some maneuvering for Dad’s Honda to finally make it.

  I wait anxiously for the first glimpse of Grandma’s dark brown, three-story cabin. It’s made up entirely of the pines surrounding it, rendering it nearly invisible when it’s dark. One large section of the home is conical, capped off by a witch hat—my favorite feature. The peculiar-looking building often intrigued campers, who would sneak up from the camp base down the hill and spy on the home, as Grandma once told me. The windows mostly reflect the trees outside, but on the off chance they caught movement inside, they would descend back down screaming.

  Today, the cabin is as quaint and homely as I saw it six months ago. That hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will. It’s hard to think that this place will ever shake off Grandma Ginny’s influence.

  When we pull into the driveway, we see that her porch is steeped in bouquets of flowers, from the railing to the porch swing. A woman who had been facing the door with a baking dish in hand turns around and waves at us enthusiastically. “Oh god, it’s Mrs. Frankfort,” Mom mutters under her breath.

  All of the flowers have notes of condolences attached—apologies for having missed us and promises to attend Grandma’s funeral. Mom makes polite small talk with Mrs. Frankfort, who appears to be Siskinoa’s premier busybody, while the rest of us bring the flowers in. Soon, we’re left alone.

  The funeral takes place the next day, and Grandma is interred in the town’s main cemetery, per her wishes. Nearly the whole town arrives to say their goodbyes. Telling by the size of the crowd, Grandma Ginny was a popular resident.

  Before, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see her one last time, but once in Siskinoa, I now want it all to be over with as soon as possible. A sense of anxiety has overtaken me, but I don’t know where it’s coming from or why.

  It’s during the following week, when we finally meet with the executor of her will that I realize I’m desperate for some parting message—some explanation as to why she wanted me to have the Woodland.

  There’s the obvious explanation; I was perhaps the closest grandchild she had. The one who visited her most. And from a young age, it was clear that I enjoyed these woods and loved to hear her stories the most.

  But Grandma Ginny was never obvious. Secrets were her language.

  Chapter 5

  The executor is a man named John, a family friend who I’ve known since very young and who was perhaps her closest friend up until her death. We came to visit Grandma a few times only to see the pair already sipping coffee on the porch. I haven’t seen him for years but he smiles at me as if we speak to each other every day.

  “She already knows, John,” Mom tells him first thing at the will reading.

  “Oh, good! That’ll make everything go by quicker,” he says, adjusting his glasses.

  We’re in the cabin’s library, a cozy room with a tall ceiling. The Hunts, Grandma’s family, did justice to the word “library”; books encase the room from floor to ceiling, although one wall is entirely made of glass. This part of the house sits on a ridge, and the window wall looks out on a dramatic downward slope of trees, suspending us in the air.

  When Mom and I entered this morning, there was already one other person in the room —a man around my age who I’ve never seen before. He’s dressed in a sports coat, checkered shirt, and khakis as if he doesn’t usually dress nice but is trying to be polite.

  Mom elbowed me as soon as she saw him, causing me to yelp. She shot me a mischievous glance and wiggled her eyebrows in his direction. “How are you thinking about this now?” I reprimanded her. To be sure, the man is attractive, but I’m not in the mood.

  “Maybe you should read through the will, nevertheless, John, to satisfy your duties as executor,” Mom says, responding to his last comment.

  “Oh, of course,” John says, readjusting his glass. “‘I, Virginia Hunt, of sound mind and legal capacity, do hereby declare’—you know what? I’ll just skip to the important bits.” He clears his throat. “‘I bequeath my 10-acre property and 3,500 square foot house situated on it, located at 10 Lover’s Lane, to my beloved granddaughter, Sydney Wilkerson. This includes all of the furniture, possessions, and belongings within the house, as well as any items on the property that are not explicitly bequeathed elsewhere in this will. Additionally, I leave my personal diary, containing my thoughts, memories, and reflections, to Sydney Wilkerson. It is my wish that she receives not only the physical property and its contents but also the cherished and intimate experiences captured within the diary.”

  I feel my brows burrow. Grandma kept a diary?

  John clears his throat again. “Okay, as for savings: ‘I bequeath the sum of $450,000 from my savings account to my granddaughter, Sydney Wilkerson. I trust that she will utilize this amount for the upkeep, maintenance and improvements of the aforementioned property—”

  He continues reading the will, which includes a large donation to Grandma’s favorite animal rescue charity.

  Mom is looking at me with eyebrows raised after John mentions the financial inheritance, but all of this information is passing me by. The last word I heard was “diary.”

  If Grandma Ginny was already leaving all of her possessions inside the cabin, why did she go out of her way to mention the diary? Is it located in a vault in Switzerland or something?

  John finishes the rest of the will, with nothing shocking or surprising to impart. Grandma had already given Mom her expensive china, so there was nothing left to learn. Except for one thing:

  “Where’s her diary?”

  My voice breaks through a newly formed conversation among the others, who have transitioned into a conversation about legalese. They all stare at me in silence until John speaks up.

  “Oh . . . uh . . . I don’t know.” He looks genuinely puzzled. “She said it’d be among her belongings, but we couldn’t find it.”

  “I’d assume that it’s still somewhere in the home," Mom adds. "She’d just wanted you to know that it existed, sweetheart."

  The man in the suit jacket gently takes the will from John. His voice is deep, and his eyes are a gorgeous blue. “Unless the diary is made of solid gold, I don't think you'll have anything to worry about. You’ll probably find it when you go through your grandmother’s things.”

  My mom takes this opportunity to address him. “This is Sydney, by the way.”

  I stare at her in mortification. “I think he knows that, Mom. He was here the whole time.”

  The man chuckles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Admittedly, I like his laugh.

  “Oh, dear me,” John says. “I didn’t introduce you. This is James Canfield. He’s our legal representative for the day. In case . . . in case something like this came up.” John looks a little disappointed in himself.

  “Mrs. Hunt drafted her will at our law firm, but I wasn’t the lawyer,” he says modestly, in a way that makes me warm up to him. There’s good humor in his eyes. “Actually, I don’t work there anymore. John just asked me to be here to help as a friend.”

  I don’t ask James why he no longer works at the firm even though it seems like an invitation to further conversation. Instead, I stare at my lap and avoid my mom’s punitive eyes.

  “Well, it looks like we should be going,” John says with a smile. “You probably want this whole house to yourself as soon as possible, Sydney.”

  “Oh no, of course not—”

  “We’re having dinner with family tonight. Please join us,” Mom says, to my relief, and they acquiesce.

  I don’t want them to leave just yet, especially James.

  Chapter 6

  My family is downstairs, chatting in the living room, as I quietly climb the stairs to the second floor. The interior of the cabin is made entirely of wood, but unlike the outside, it’s a lighter shade of wood that turns golden when it captures the natural light oozing from the windows. The lamps are off but the sun winks at me as it filters through tree leaves and plasters itself on the walls, showing the way to Grandma’s bedroom.

  The room still smells of rosemary, as Grandma Ginny always did. Everything is neat, tidy, and homely. The quilt on her bed is perfectly made and folded, and I wonder at how easy it was for her to make anything feel like home. A gene I didn’t inherit, telling from my Pittsburgh apartment.

  I gently open up drawers in her nightstands. Strewn papers, rocks she kept from the lake shore, keys to the garage, and books. The drawers in her vanity are filled purely with clothes or scarves. I look under the bed, but there are only pennies. Her closet has more clothes, shoes, and tax documents.

  No diary.

  By evening, I've scoured the entire second and third floors, which consist mainly of empty bedrooms, linen closets, and a bare attic. As I lift my aching neck for the last time, cramped from peeking underneath beds and dressers, I hear the sound of additional voices joining those of my parents downstairs.

  John returns, carrying a baking dish covered with foil. Other Siskinoa residents who knew Grandma Ginny have already arrived and are helping my parents in the kitchen. Stories are being told and memories recounted. Grandma had been deeply involved with town matters, once serving on the town council, and her decision to never leave earned her a lot of respect. She also never changed her last name when she married and remained Virginia Hunt, preserving the legacy of one of the oldest families in the area. In fact, an ancestor of hers helped build the Siskinoan railroad.

  Most people gathered here are older than me, that is, until I spot James in the living room, talking to another man. I mean to ask James if he had known Grandma when I suddenly recognize the other man: Terry Goodman.

  Terry brightens up as I approach and his features seem to fall into place perfectly with my memory of him. Terry used to give me lollipops at his store downtown, where my parents often stocked up on beef jerky before heading back to Spokane. Those were the only interactions I ever had with him, as he was a bit reserved but was nevertheless friendly toward everyone.

  “You’re much taller than the last time I’ve seen you,” he says with a genuine smile. Terry then introduces me to James, but we inform him that we’ve already met.

  “So it looks like the whole town is here,” I say to cover up a sudden silence.

  “The whole town minus a couple of people,” Terry mutters, glancing over the crowd.

  “Like who?”

  “Cassandra, but she broke her hip, poor thing.”

  “And the Gabelmans,” James adds, his expression darkening.

  The name strikes a chord, flinging up deeper memories of Grandma’s stories.

  She used to speak of the Gabelmans a lot. On the surface, they were just her neighbors—the owners of the summer camp by the lake shore. But in recent years, she spoke of them less, and during my last visit, it seemed as if she hadn’t visited her neighbor in months.

  But something else underpinned their relationship. There was a history there that she was always reluctant to disclose.

  “Ed Gabelman,” I utter his name with the uncertainty of memory, “how is he doing?”

  Terry shakes his head. “He’s passed away from cancer. About three years ago.”

  “Three years ago!” I cover my mouth too late. My outburst draws eyes, and I feel my cheeks blush. I knew Ed as a friendly man who came by Grandma’s home and brought me ice cream whenever he visited, as his main residence was in another town. His death must account for the lack of neighborly visits. “So who lives there now?”

  “Luke Gabelman.” James says the name tersely. His eyes flash in the direction of the Gabelman cabin down the hill.

  I don’t know Luke, and I hardly know James, but they evidently aren’t on the best of terms, and I instantly want to know why.

  “Ed’s son,” Terry clarifies. “Tim’s grandnephew.”

  Tim Gabelman. That’s the name. “He was the one who owned the summer camp, wasn’t he?”

  My interest in our conversation has piqued, but the mention of the camp causes a change in Terry. He looks away, guarded. A mere nod in response. James’s expression also changes as he looks at me, but it’s one of curiosity.

  I’ve always wondered what the townsfolk thought about the camp and the stories surrounding it. My only authority on the subject was Grandma Ginny, and I never heard the camp mentioned by anyone else.

  And Grandma Ginny might not have been the best source for the topic. She was biased, probably more so than anyone else.

  Especially with what occurred there.

  Chapter 7

  My opportunity to delve deeper into the subject comes after dinner as the party spreads out onto the porch. Guests bring out their mugs of tea and chat underneath the fairy lights. The twinkling bulbs string along the wrap-around porch, a line of defense against the onslaught of twilight. I catch James standing alone, and I strike. The corners of his eyes wrinkle as I approach, and my insides suddenly warm up.

  “I used to spend summers here as a kid,” I start. “I’m surprised we’ve never met.”

  “Well, my grandpa would use the summers for travel, and me and my parents would join him,” James explains, turning completely to meet my eyes. “Puerto Rico, Bora Bora, the Serengeti—we went everywhere.”

  “Wow. Who was your grandpa? Sounds like an interesting guy.”

  “Gene Canfield. I think our grandparents knew each other.”

  Gene Canfield. Grandma Ginny may have mentioned him, but I can’t recall in what context.

  I then bring up our earlier interaction with Terry—my reference to the summer camp and his and Terry’s strange reactions.

  “I’m glad you mentioned it,” James smiles. “I assumed you would know more than me considering your grandma was the next-door neighbor.”

  I sigh and rest my palms on the cold wood of the porch railing. That cool and dense air I dreamt about in Pittsburgh fills my nostrils. “My grandmother mostly talked about her days as a camper. She kept a few details about the camp mysterious, but I remember she said that Tim Gabelman was wrongly accused of doing shady things at his camp, which is why it ultimately closed down. And . . . and the drowning. But everyone knows about that story.”

  James nods solemnly. “Donna Marchand. Tragic. Still haunts this town, you know.”

  “But do people still believe that Tim was responsible?”

  James shrugs but it’s clear by his lively eyes that people do—and he probably does as well.

  “But those rumors of him doing occultist stuff were just rumors.”

  He smiles. “You sound like your grandma. My dad always said she was his biggest defender.”

  I never met Tim; he was before my time. But I knew his son, Ed, and both Grandma and Ed Gabelman maintained his innocence. To me, Grandma Ginny’s word was as good as gold. She always talked Tim up, painting a respectable picture of the former camp owner. He ran a sort of wellness retreat for locals. Spirituality, meditation—that kind of thing. Quirky for the 1950s but not dangerous. Until one day, everyone thought it was. Tim was forced to close down his summer camp, which left a young Grandma Ginny heartbroken.

  “Yeah, my grandmother just said he was very spiritual. Found his inner peace and knew the names of a couple Hindu gods, but that hardly made him a criminal.”

  James sighs, but a faint smile remains on his lips. “I think you need to read up on the investigation, Sydney.”

  I notice it's the first time he says my name.

  He continues. “Even if Tim wasn’t doing black magic, he was negligent and reckless—”

  “But he was never charged!”

  “Come on, underwater meditation?” He scoffs. “It was asinine, let alone irresponsible. He led Donna and the rest of his cult into a false sense of security, even if it wasn’t done maliciously. She drowned under his watch. It all comes down to that.”

  I fall silent at his sudden fervor. Except for the use of the word “cult,” I’m not inclined to oppose his points. I’m not really sure why Grandma was so adamant about defending Tim’s honor. She had her reasons, whatever those were.

  What little I know about this case is that Donna Marchand, who was a single woman in her mid-twenties and was a family friend of the Hunts—and a close friend of Grandma’s—drowned in the lake down the hill. Lake Rockatchee. Tim wasn’t nearby nor was he watching her, as Grandma told me. She merely went for a swim. Of course, the whole town viewed Tim with suspicion.

  James smiles self-consciously after I don’t add anything. “Sorry, I used to be a lawyer.”

  “Why aren’t you anymore?”

 

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