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In the image, Harry and Priscilla are side by side, grim-faced in their Victorian clothing. The tiniest sliver of a moment, permanently frozen in black and white, but every single one of my instincts was screaming that this mattered .

I paced the room with my hands on my head, totally overwhelmed. “Okay, okay…so we have historical evidence that proves they at least met each other there . What evidence proves they met again here in Haven’s Bluff? What assumptions are we making?”

Eve tapped her chin. “We’re assuming the locket proves they got off the train here, but it doesn’t. Not necessarily. Monty was always iffy on those eyewitness accounts—”

“And Kristi, my fact-checker, is convinced the log book entry was forged,” I added.

Eve pushed to stand, walking back toward the records section. “We need some way to prove they got off at the train station here.”

She was staring up at the wall of records like a painter examining a mural she’d just completed.

After a few minutes, she slid a thick binder down titled Diablo Canyon County Train Stops and Departures: 1890 to 1910 .

Laying it reverently onto the table, she opened the pages, her eyes wide with genuine glee.

“God bless local historians and all the weird stuff they love to keep,” she muttered. “Transportation records always tell a damn fine story.”

I moved around the table to peer over her shoulder. Each page contained logs with faded pencil markings—lines, dashes, symbols I couldn’t parse.

“I always found this especially fascinating in my studies,” Eve said.

“Old administrative reports paint a fairly vibrant picture of day-to-day life, as much as personal letters can. Sometimes more. Where a group of people is headed, and where they’ve come from, is about as socio-political as you can get. ”

Eve must have caught me staring. She wrinkled her nose at me. “Sorry, this stuff can be boring.”

“That’s not it at all. I like hearing you talk about it. I like seeing you happy.”

She turned back to scan the pages, but I could tell she knew I was still admiring her.

She was fighting to contain a smile, and there was a slight flush to her cheeks.

Eve seemed so sure of herself now, so comfortable in the life she’d deliberately built here.

It was physically painful to imagine this same Eve in college, with anxiety so severe it sent her to the hospital, and her overbearing parents telling her she was faking it for the attention.

Maybe it was possible to create the life you wanted, free from your parents’ shitty expectations. Eve was doing it. Monty certainly had.

You could, too .

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Kristi. Just a heads-up , her text said. Greg saw your email about dropping the Monty story and he seems pissed. He’s been stomping around all morning.

The reality of my situation came crashing back down around me. If he was pissed, then I was probably back to square one: no Monty story, therefore no promotion, therefore no higher salary for me and my sister and no tangible achievements I could parade around my father. And where did that leave me?

My blood ran cold, all the panic clashing with my newfound inspiration and hope. I’d never felt this strongly before, at least not as an adult.

Before my mom died, she cultivated these kinds of feelings for me and Daphne. Always told us to hold tight to our freedom and curiosity for as long as we were able.

Having them finally return felt so powerful I was light-headed. But Priscilla and Adeline’s story was unfolding so beautifully, with so many different layers, the question of whether or not I’d be telling this story became one of need and not want.

At the same time, even the pitch I’d sent to Greg felt shallow at best. This couldn’t be distilled down into a handful of paragraphs, heavily edited with every vivid detail squeezed out of it.

Historical moments of queer community—of joy and defiance, resistance and resilience—were always erased from the record.

Or only dragged back into the spotlight for the sake of tragedy.

Or worse, ignored completely. Made invisible to perpetrate the lie that we’d never existed before and didn’t deserve to.

Priscilla and Adeline’s story was the exact opposite. It demanded to exist.

I coughed into my hand, refocused on the pages Eve was looking at.

“As far as I can tell, these documents tell the comings and goings of people passing through Haven’s Bluff via the railroad.” She ran her finger down. Tapped at the bottom. “Here’s April 1900…I think?” She squinted. “What day did the diamonds go missing again?”

“April seventh,” I said. “I looked this up earlier. Back then, it would have taken about three days to reach New Mexico via train. Assuming they hopped on right away and didn’t make any other stops.”

Eve scratched the top of her head. “Huh. The whole month of April, it just says ‘DT-Forks.’ What do you think that means?”

There was a knock at the door. Cheryl, the woman from earlier, was standing in the doorway with a kind smile. “My, you’ve been busy up here, haven’t you?” Then she brightened even further. “Good thinking. Trains always tell a story.”

“That’s what we were hoping, but I keep hitting a code that I don’t recognize,” Eve said. “We’re looking at the train schedule for April 1900. It just says ‘DT-Forks’ on every line.”

Cheryl pulled on her glasses and came to stand next to Eve.

“Oh, yes. That was an infamous month in the county. Torrential rains caused mudslides that took out a section of the track leading into Haven’s Bluff.

All trains were rerouted to the town next to us, about twenty miles away.

That stands for ‘Detour to Forks,’ which is the name of the town. ”

Eve’s gaze shot to mine.

“So you’re saying that in the month of April in 1900, anyone passing through New Mexico would have stopped in Forks, not Haven’s Bluff?” I asked.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“What about for people who lived here at the time?” Eve asked. “Did they travel to Forks when the train came in?”

Cheryl nodded, wiping her glasses with the end of her sweater. “Via stagecoach, yes. They’d pretty much have to. It was the only way people were importing goods and supplies at the time.”

Eve looked like someone had whispered the winning lottery ticket number into her ear.

“Harper,” she said, her grin a million miles wide, “we have to go to Forks .”