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—

As I sit on the sofa in my living room, all eyes—Juan’s, Gran-dad’s, Angela’s, and Detective Stark’s—are trained on me. The diary in my hands clicks open. The key is a perfect fit. The lock gives way, and whatever Gran wrote inside the diary is now accessible.

“Aren’t you going to have a look?” Angela asks. I can’t explain it, the tingling sensation in my palms, the charged feeling coursing up my arms and electrifying my entire being. I part the spine slightly, enough to glimpse the first page. As predicted, it’s some kind of fairy-tale collection à la Gran. I slam the diary shut, because the sight of her handwriting threatens to undo me in front of everyone, as do the very first words I see, a salutation I immediately hear in her voice, resonant and clear as though she’s right beside me— Dear Molly.

I look up from the diary. They’re watching me expectantly.

“You don’t have to read it now, only when you’re ready,” says my gran-dad. “Flora made that clear when she gave it to me.”

I lock the diary, then set it and the key on Gran’s curio cabinet.

“It’s pretty unlikely that your grandmother’s diary will shed light on what’s happening now with the egg,” says Detective Stark. “At the moment, our biggest lead is Maggie Gray. I need to get back to the precinct and look her up. Maybe I’ll find an address, see if she has a police record or any sketchy affiliations.”

“Her given name is Margaret,” says my gran-dad. “She was named after my aunt.”

“Your aunt?” I say. “You’ve never mentioned an aunt.”

“She’s long gone, I’m sorry to say,” he replies. “An excellent woman. Your gran knew her well.”

“Molly,” says Detective Stark, “it’s best you lie low for a bit, just until I get answers on this Maggie woman. I don’t think you should go to work tomorrow. Maybe take a day off. Relax a little.”

“A day off?” I say, barely understanding the concept.

“Just stay home and put your feet up until I give you the all clear,” Stark says.

“Molly’s not going anywhere,” Angela pronounces. “Not if I can help it.”

“Since when do you decide my life for me?” I ask.

“Angela’s right, mi amor, ” says Juan. “We’ve all just been scared half to death. Until we know more, you should stay home as the detective suggests.”

“It won’t take long. A day, two max,” says Stark.

“But I have a job to do. Mr.Snow counts on me,” I counter.

“I’ll call Mr.Snow myself and explain,” says my gran-dad. “He’ll understand.”

The truth is in times of trouble I prefer to work. I’ve always found it an excellent distraction. “What will I do all day alone in the apartment?” I ask.

“Clean?” Juan suggests. “The front closet could use a good tidy, and I did see a dust mote or two on your gran’s curio cabinet.”

I know what he’s doing—trying to get me to like the idea. It’s only when I hear Gran’s voice in my head— Never look a gift horse in the mouth —that I warm to the notion.

“If it makes everyone feel better for me to stay home, that’s what I’ll do,” I say.

“I’ll bake you shortbread tonight, so you can have biscuits with your tea tomorrow,” Juan offers. “And I’ll call to check in during the day.”

“So will I,” says Angela.

“Me, too,” echoes Gran-dad.

And so, it’s settled. Tomorrow, Juan will go to work, and I will stay in our apartment on my own. Thanks to the missing egg, I have become a prisoner in my own home.

—

“Rise and shine!” Those are the first words I hear the next morning, much like every morning, as Juan whisks back the curtains and lets the morning light shine into our bedroom. I’m about to get out of bed and hurry off to shower, but then I remember I’m not in any rush today since I’m not going anywhere. I watch as Juan putters around the room, picking out clothes and putting on his slippers.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to work,” I say. “Even Detective Stark admitted there’s a low probability that I’m in real danger.”

“Molly,” says Juan as he turns to face me. “What is it you always say about that Egyptian river?”

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt?”

“That’s the one,” he replies.

This clearly isn’t a battle I’m going to win.

Juan readies himself for his workday. We have breakfast, and soon enough he’s off to work.

“I’ll call you later, mi amor, ” he says, planting a kiss on my lips and hugging me tight. “I’ll miss you at the hotel and so will the staff, but there’s always tomorrow.”

I say goodbye, then I lock the door behind him, leaning against it as I survey our apartment, wondering what I’ll do with myself for the rest of the day.

No point weeping when you could be sweeping.

In Gran’s honor, I’ll give life meaning with deep cleaning, starting with her curio cabinet. I grab my supplies and begin with the middle shelf, polishing Gran’s collection of souvenir spoons. Each one holds a memory of a precious moment we spent together. I’m burnishing one from Killarney, Ireland—pure silver with a green inlaid shamrock on the handle. I remember when we acquired this spoon, not in Ireland, because our travels were relegated to the armchair variety. We were walking past a mansion where Gran worked as a maid when I was about twelve years old.

At the end of a long, winding driveway was a cardboard box outside the iron entry gate. It was filled with all manner of trinkets—a crystal vase, bamboo placemats, some dishes and teacups (much better than ours at home), and this silver souvenir spoon.

“Are they really getting rid of all these things?” I asked, shocked that such treasures could be abandoned outside a gate. “Let’s grab the whole box!”

“Not without checking first,” Gran insisted. “We are not thieves. We take only what’s rightfully ours, remember? You wait here.” She went through the iron gate, walked up the driveway, and rang the doorbell of the regal mansion. A man stepped out, and she spoke to him for a moment, then returned a few minutes later.

“We’re free to take what we want,” she announced.

“The whole box!” I said immediately.

“No. We’ll choose one item, and we’ll leave the rest for others.”

“But why can’t we take it all?”

“Because, Molly,” she said as she looked me in the eye, “pride is taking less than you need. Generosity is leaving a gift for others.”

I nodded, taking in her words.

“What do you choose?” she asked.

I looked into the box again and held up the souvenir spoon from Ireland. “This,” I said.

“But that’s not the thing you most want,” she replied. It was true. Were I to choose for myself, I would have taken a teacup, but I knew Gran loved souvenir spoons. I knew she’d treasure it.

“Generosity,” I said, placing the spoon in her hand. “Meaning: leaving a gift for others. I do listen, you know.”

Her eyes became glassy, then she held me tight. I could not understand why she was suddenly crying.

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked when she released me.

“No,” she said. “You’ve done everything right.”

Now, as I polish the spoon, the memory shines. I think of my mother, Maggie, claiming that Gran was a thief, that she stole the Fabergé. How could such an honorable woman, good to a fault, do such a thing? I put the spoon back with the others, then turn my attention to the diary and key sitting on the top shelf of the cabinet.

Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. There’s no time like the present.

I take Gran’s diary in my hands. I put the key in the lock and twist—click. It opens. I’m shaking as I make my way to the sofa, where I begin on page one— Dear Molly.

Just then my phone rings, and I jump. I put down the diary and answer my phone.

“Molly, it’s Mr.Snow. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve asked Mr.Preston to pick you up and bring you to the hotel right away.”

“Of course,” I say, “I’d be happy to work today. I was worried about leaving you short-staffed.”

“It’s not that, Molly,” he says. “We’ve found something.”

“Found what?” I ask.

“The Fabergé egg.”