Dust motes dance in the shafts of mid-afternoon sun cutting through the second bedroom's sash window. Imogen kneels on the Victorian timber, her dove-grey wool coat fanned out like a shroud against the grime. The flat smells of cedarwood and the peculiar, metallic damp of the nearby Thames. She has spent an hour tapping at the perimeter of the room, looking for the inconsistency her sister’s final, frantic letter hinted at.
Her fingers catch on a splintered edge near the skirting board. With a precise, forensic levering of her nails, she prying up a short length of oak. Tucked into the joist space sits a small leather journal, its oxblood cover embossed with the gold initials 'B.C.' in a typeface far too formal for the confession it likely holds. Beatrice, what were you so afraid of? The leather feels cold, preserved by the shadows of the floor.
She lifts the book, the weight of it unsettlingly heavy in her palm. It is the only thing left in a room Hugo claimed was cleared months ago. As she shifts her knees to stand, the floor beneath her right foot gives way. Under her weight, a second loose floorboard shifts with a sharp, echoing crack.
