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After meeting with the Bees, Detective Stark drops me off at home, and I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning the apartment. I wash and wax the old parquet floors until they gleam and shine. I scour the rusty bathtub until I’m certain there’s not a germ in it. In the living room, I consider dusting Gran’s curio cabinet, but when my eyes land on her diary—the key lying beside it—I feel a sudden pang that hits me right in the heart, and I need to lie down.

I head to the bedroom, where I’m about to collapse in bed, but my feet have other ideas. They lead me to the closed door of the room I rarely enter, the space that Juan has been good enough to never suggest we turn into anything else than the shrine it has always been—Gran’s bedroom. The door squeaks as I enter. The room is just as she left it years ago—her ruffled blue bedspread perfectly smoothed across her mattress, two plump pillows on top. On her bedside table the brass, heart-shaped jewelry box I bought her for Christmas years ago shines brightly, a beacon in the dark.

A wave of grief rolls over me. “Oh, Gran,” I say out loud. I lie on her bed, hugging one of her pillows tight to my chest. “Gran, what should I do? Should I sell the egg or not?” I ask out loud. “What if someone really is out to get me? What if I’m in danger?”

Loud and clear, I hear Gran’s answer as though she were perched right next to me— Turn the page. Start a new chapter.

I close my eyes, ruminating on her words, letting them soothe me. The next thing I know, I hear a key in the front door and Juan’s tremulous voice calling, “Molly? Where are you?”

I jump off the bed, rearranging the pillows and spread. I hurry out of the room, closing the door behind me.

Juan is standing in the living room, his shoulders tense. “Dios mío,” he says the second he lays eyes on me. “What were you doing in there? Are you all right?” he asks as he gathers me in his arms.

“I’m perfectly well,” I say. “I was going to clean Gran’s room. Then I lay down for a moment, and I must have fallen asleep.”

“Good,” says Juan as he showers me with kisses.

“How was your shift at the hotel?” I ask.

“Regular. Nothing to report, except that Lily, Sunshine, Angela, and Sunitha all miss you. They told me to tell you that.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I missed them today, too. And you,” I say.

Juan smiles, then goes to the door and locks it. “Molly, I’m glad you’re home safe.”

“Me, too,” I reply. “Detective Stark took me to see the Bees. Turns out, it’s not uncommon for stolen art to reappear. They don’t think I have anything to worry about. Maybe the thieves got cold feet.”

“As long as you don’t get cold feet,” says Juan as he takes my hand and leads me to the sofa in the living room.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, for better or for worse,” I say.

“Always for better,” he replies, “but I’m concerned that with everything going on, we can’t concentrate on our wedding. You still need a dress, and we need to figure out the reception.”

“Not to mention where we’ll live after we’re married,” I say. “If Mr.Rosso sells our apartment out from under us, where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” says Juan. “But let’s not focus on that right now. Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, right?”

“Right,” I say.

“And speaking of positives, you’re not going to believe this, but Cheryl apologized today.”

“Cheryl?” I say.

“She came to the kitchen this afternoon acting even shiftier than usual. I expected her to try to sell me swampland on the moon, but then she suddenly apologized for eating my giraffe marzipanimal in the morning.”

“I can’t believe it,” I reply. “She must want something. The question is: What?”

“Exactly,” he says.

“I have a funny feeling about all of this. The egg’s disappearance and its return. It’s like there’s a puzzle piece right in front of me, but I can’t quite see it. If I could just place it in its spot, the entire picture would be complete.”

“The huevo has always been a mystery.”

“Hard to crack,” I add, waiting for Juan to smile at my pun, which he does. “The Bees want me to sell it. Should I?”

“You’d be rich,” he says, “like they promised before.”

“A promise that failed to materialize,” I say.

“What will you do?” Juan asks.

“I don’t know. I need to think it through. All I want is my life back, for things to return to normal for both of us.”

“All I want is to marry you,” says Juan, “and for us to live happily ever after for the rest of our lives.”

“A fairy-tale ending,” I say.

“Just that.”

Juan gets up from the sofa to start dinner, and in an hour or so, we’re eating a delicious stew that tastes so much like Gran’s that when I close my eyes, I imagine she’s sitting at the table with us. After we clean up, Juan and I watch a David Attenborough documentary about apex predators. Despite the high drama, Juan keeps nodding off, his head landing on my shoulder.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces when a shark attack startles him awake. “Are you coming?”

“I think I’ll read for a while,” I say.

“Okay, mi amor. ” He kisses my forehead, then stands. “Don’t stay up too late. We have work tomorrow.”

“I’ll be in bed soon,” I say.

He shuffles off to our bedroom, and I finish the documentary. When it ends, I turn off the TV and sit quietly on the sofa, my mind churning. I look over at Gran’s curio cabinet, where her diary sits on top. I take a deep breath, then grab it. I settle on the sofa, pulling Gran’s lone-star quilt around me. I turn the key in the lock and begin reading.

Dear Molly,

I read one entry, then the next, then the next. Once I start, I can’t stop. The pages turn, and her life, her history, unfurls before my eyes. It’s as though I’m seeing her clearly for the very first time, this woman who was my everything and yet a mystery in many ways. All of the pieces fall into place—every choice she made, every decision, all the wisdom she imparted to me, lessons learned from her own mistakes.

To err once is human. To err twice is idiotic.

By 2:00 a.m ., I’ve learned all about her parents and about the manor where she grew up. With each new entry, Gran comes more alive, more fully fleshed in the afterlife than she was when we sat on this sofa together, watching Columbo. And behind her I see another ghost taking shape, the outline of the formidable woman who helped Gran become who she was—not her birth mother but my great-aunt, Mrs.Mead.

We had more in common than I ever realized—Gran and me. We both had mothers who failed us. Mrs.Mead stepped in to care for Gran, and Gran stepped in to care for me. There’s a generosity to both decisions that moves me to my core. I have to stop reading because I can’t see through my tears.

I go to the kitchen, where I make tea in Gran’s favorite cup—the one with the cottage scene on it, a modest stone dwelling with a thatched roof and gardens all around. Oh my goodness. It wasn’t just a teacup to her—it was a memory of hearth and home, of Mrs.Mead standing by the stove while Gran did homework at her kitchen table.

With Gran’s warm cup in hand, I nestle under her quilt in the living room, and I pick up reading where I left off.

Mr.Preston—John. My gran-dad. He was always there in the background of her life, and yet she didn’t always see him clearly. Oh, this man, the love of her life and her greatest loss. Frogs and princes, maids and butlers, barons and tycoons.

The pages turn and turn, the hours pass, but I cannot stop reading. I hear the birds stirring outside, dawn creeps up the sky, but I’m riveted to the page—Gran speaking to me from the great beyond.

Be careful what you wish for.

All that glitters isn’t gold.

Love is the only gift that lasts.

I turn the last page, and I can’t stop the tears that flow from my eyes. Never have I felt as close to Gran as I do in this moment. I clutch the diary to my chest, and I say thank you over and over and over.

This is how Juan finds me at 5:00 a.m ., hugging an old leather-bound diary and talking to it as if it were alive.

“Molly, are you okay?” he asks.

“Never better,” I reply as I wipe my eyes.

He appears unconvinced. “Did you stay up all night?”

“I did,” I reply.

“You read her diary?”

“Every last word,” I say. “I know everything now.”

“Everything?” he asks.

“About me, about her, about who we really are and where we came from. It’s all there between the lines,” I say. “And I know who took it.”

“Who took what?” he asks.

“The Fabergé,” I say. “And I might just know who returned it, too.”