Chapter Three Hundred Two: The Hidden Key
The discovery happened by accident, as most discoveries did in the Blackwood family.
Eleanor was exploring the attic, as she often did since joining the family, searching for old photographs and forgotten treasures. The attic was dusty and cluttered, filled with boxes that had not been opened in decades. She loved the attic. It felt like a museum of the family's history, a place where the past was still alive.
She found the key tucked inside an old book, a collection of poetry that had belonged to the first Lina. The key was small, brass, tarnished with age. There was no label, no indication of what it opened.
Eleanor carried the key downstairs and found Lina's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter in the garden.
"I found this," Eleanor said, holding out the key. "In the attic. Hidden in one of Lina's books."
The woman took the key, turning it over in her hands.
"I've never seen this before," she said. "But it must open something important. Lina wouldn't have hidden it otherwise."
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The search began.
The family scoured the penthouse, looking for anything the key might fit. They tried the old trunks in the attic. They tried the antique desks in the study. They tried the chests in the basement.
Nothing worked.
Lina's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter sat in the garden, frustrated.
"What are we missing?" she asked.
Eleanor sat beside her. "Maybe it's not in the penthouse. Maybe it's somewhere else."
The woman looked at her. "Like where?"
Eleanor thought about the question. "Your grandmother wrote about a safe deposit box. At the bank on Fifth Street. Maybe this key opens something there."
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The bank on Fifth Street was still there, though it had changed over the decades. The marble floors were worn, the tellers were new, but the safe deposit boxes were the same.
Lina's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter presented the key. The bank manager led her and Eleanor to a small room, where a metal box sat on a table.
She inserted the key.
She turned it.
The box opened.
Inside was a single item. A leather-bound journal, worn and faded, its pages yellowed with age.
She picked it up with trembling hands.
She opened it.
The handwriting was her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's. Flowing and elegant, the same handwriting that had written the letters to Margaret.
I'm writing this down because I can't keep it in my head anymore. It's too heavy. It's too much.
I've done terrible things. I've lied to everyone I love. I've hurt people who didn't deserve it.
But the worst thing I've done—the thing I can never take back—is what I did to Henry.
Lina's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter's breath caught.
Henry. Her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's biological father. The man who had raised her for the first two years of her life, the man who had loved her even though she was not his, the man who had killed himself when he learned the truth.
Henry was not a weak man. He was not fragile. He was not broken.
I broke him.
I told him the truth about Lina. I told him she wasn't his. I told him that Victor was her real father. I told him that I had lied to him for years.
I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to punish him for loving her more than he loved me.
I didn't know he would kill himself.
I didn't know.
But I should have.
She read the passage three times.
Then she handed the journal to Eleanor.
Eleanor read it in silence, her face pale, her jaw tight. When she finished, she looked at the woman beside her.
"Your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother drove him to suicide," Eleanor said. "On purpose."
The woman nodded slowly. "She did."
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The family gathered that night.
The penthouse was filled with people. Every generation was there, from the oldest to the youngest. The rooms were crowded with whispers and questions, the air thick with anticipation.
Lina's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter stood at the front of the room, the journal in her hands.
"I have something to tell you," she said.
The room quieted.
She told them about the key. About the journal. About the first Lina's confession.
She read the passage aloud.
When she finished, the room was silent.
Then the little girl with curly hair and a gap-toothed smile stood up. She was only five years old, but her voice was steady.
"She was sad," the little girl said. "She was broken. She made a mistake."
The woman nodded. "She did."
The little girl walked to her grandmother and took her hand. "But she survived. She built this family. That's what matters."
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That night, the little girl sat in the garden with Eleanor.
The stars were out, scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds. The air was cool and quiet. The city hummed in the distance.
"Eleanor," the little girl said, "do you think the first Lina is watching us? Right now?"
Eleanor looked up at the sky. "I know she is."
The little girl pointed to a bright star. "Is that her?"
Eleanor nodded. "That's her."
The little girl stared at the star for a long time. "Hi, Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandma," she whispered. "We found your journal. We know the truth. You were sad. You were broken. You made a mistake. But you survived. You built this family. I'm proud of you."
The star twinkled.
The little girl gasped. "She blinked at me!"
Eleanor smiled. "She's saying she's proud of you too."
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End of Chapter Three Hundred Two