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Weston said there are records, things going all the way back to the beginning of the Barkers in America. There has to be a clue about who or what Rosewood is and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out a way to end all this.
Hope blossoms in my chest, helping ease some of the panic that threatened to drag me into a full-blown meltdown.
Struggling back to my feet, I stare down at the foyer for one more brief minute, picturing how different it could be, how much more welcoming if the man who lived here actually wanted anyone to stay.
He clearly doesn’t. Not even me. He went out of his way to ensure I understood that at the table before he took that call.
Which leaves me with one singular mission—to find a way to save Dad by uncovering what I can about Rosewood and leveraging it with Weston.
I push open the library doors and step inside. The normal smell of the books and leather is altered, a heavy scent of sex still lingering in the air after last night.
Despite how unsteady I feel right now, those memories, those feelings, all come rushing back, and I find my eyes drifting to the table where it all began.
A box sits on top with a note resting on the lid.
This should be what you need.
I lift the lid and find all the supplies I asked for to help restore some of the older volumes in the collection.
It’s ridiculous how much my heart swells at the gesture. Technically, it’s for him, to ensure everything in here stays preserved, but it’s also a gift for me because it allows me to do something I love while I’m here, a way to occupy my time and make me happy doing something I’m good at.
He has no idea that I’ll be using access to the records to unravel the Barker mystery and try to save Dad.
It might make sense to start with the books Weston keeps on the other table, the papers he’s constantly examining and writing on. But something draws me to the older volumes.
Start at the beginning.
It’s impossible to understand anyone without learning their history first—who they are, where they came from, what values and dreams drive them.
I grab a pair of gloves from the box and tug them on as I move over to the glass cabinet, the one housing the most ancient volumes, and scan the spines. Most of them are blank, so old they don’t even have anything written on them—just worn, degrading leather.
This is where things started for the Barkers, for Weston.
I pull open the glass pane and grab the first one all the way to the left, what is, presumably, the oldest volume. A mere inch thick, nothing more than old parchment wrapped in desiccating animal skin, the tome still somehow sits heavy in my hands, like the weight of its contents far exceeds the actual number of pages it contains.
Moving past the shelf where Weston had me pinned last night, I push the flutter and ache between my legs to the back of my mind. If I want to get anywhere with my project, it will mean setting aside everything else for the time being—which is healthier for my sanity, anyway.
I take the book with me to the table Weston uses and settle in, opening it carefully to ensure I don’t damage any of the pages.
Old ink seeped into even more ancient parchment.
My breath catches at the date in the upper right-hand corner: 1667.
Holy shit.
The age of the writing isn’t the only reason for the shock coursing through my body.
This isn’t really a book at all.
It’s the diary of a Barker, from long before they ever moved here.
Something feels wrong about reading it, about delving into the past of the family who put Dad and me in this situation, but I can’t help him if I don’t get a handle on what the Barkers want from him.
Or what Weston wants from me.
It doesn’t take long to get swept into the elegantly scrawled words and the journey of the man who eventually brought the Barkers to the new world.
What Western told me is true.
