Free Splintered by A. G. Howard Page B

through.
A low rumble shakes the windows and rain pelts the roof as another storm closes in.
    Spreading a palm along my aquarium’s cool glass, I search the back and flip on a soft bluish light. Aphrodite and Adonis perform a graceful dance, entwining their long bodies.
    On my way to check my bug traps in the garage, I cut through the living room. Dad’s there, sitting in his recliner while staring at those giant daisies Alison appliquéd all over the arms and back. He sobs.
    I want to hug him and make up for our fight, but when he sees me watching, he claims to have something in his eye and leaves to pick up burgers for supper.
    Dust motes drift in the amber glow of the floor lamp beside his recliner. The weird lighting, coupled with the dark paneled walls, gives the living room a strange aura, like an aged sepia photograph.
    Photographs. Why did Alison say that about pictures . . . how people forget to read between the lines?
I stand there, a few feet from the recliner, while everything she babbled skates along my mind like pebbles cast into an endless well. One keeps rising back to the top: “The daisies are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”
The explanation is staring me in the face. It has been for years. I drop to my knees in front of the recliner, crumpling the layers of netting and lace beneath my miniskirt as I shove my backpack out of the way. Hard to believe it’s only been seven or so hours since I was at school. So much has happened, I’ve lost track of time.
I pluck at one of Alison’s cloth daisies where two appliquéd petals curl down from frayed stitches. On a hunch, I slide my index finger between the appliqué and the upholstery to find a hole burrowed deep into the recliner’s stuffing.
Holding my breath, I tug at the appliqué until it’s hanging by no more than one petal and a few threads. The dime-size hole stares back, too perfectly round to have been accidental. All this time, I thought she’d sewn the patches on to cover threadbare places. All this time, I was wrong.
Digging into the torn upholstery, I pull out stuffing until I hit something tiny, hard, and metallic. I trace the object, following a round shape that stretches to a long, thin leg with grooves and teeth. A key. My forefinger drags it to the hole’s opening and tugs it out. An attached necklace chain coils on the cushion like a snake.
The challenge from the website comes full circle: “If you wish to save your mother, use the key.”
Maybe I should be freaked out, but I’m thrilled to finally have tangible proof that Alison is trying to tell me something . . . that her babbles weren’t babbles at all. They were coherent clues.
Tapping the cold metal with a fingertip, I imagine what the key might unlock. I’ve never seen one like it, so intricate, with strips of burnished brass interwoven like ivy. It looks old—antique, even. As tiny as it is, it might open a diary.
I loop the necklace around my neck and tuck it under my shirt. Alison said daisies , plural. Could there be other things behind the rest of the appliqués?
Inspired, I disregard the fact that Dad could come back at any minute. I don’t even stop to consider the consequences of ripping apart his favorite chair.
He keeps a Swiss Army knife on the side table for opening mail. I flip the scissor attachment out, then snip all the daisies in half and gouge out the holes beneath. Batting snows around me.
Soon, I’m sitting at the foot of the recliner with a small trove of Wonderland-related objects: an antique hair clip—more like a bobby pin, actually—with a ruby teardrop attached to its bent end; a feather quill; and a Victorian fan made of white lace and matching gloves scented with talcum and black pepper. I suppress a sneeze and push aside two snapshots of my great-great-great-grandmother Alice in favor of the small book I also found.
I stroke the tattered paperback’s cover and study the title: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . Across the word Alice