Free Traces by Betty Bolte Page B

and see whatever was in there through adult eyes. That meant no mysteries, no adventures, and of course no spirits or ghosts.
    Now why did she think of ghosts just as she gathered her nerve to venture into the attic? Would she see the lady inside among the shadows and webs? Uncertainty fluttered in her chest, causing her to hesitate. Ever since she’d returned to Twin Oaks, she’d been besieged with self-doubt, a feeling she’d banished upon graduating from university with highest honors. Enough.
    Gripping the doorknob, she turned it and pushed the door open before she had time to dwell on her thoughts. Nonetheless her throat tightened in anticipation. With her right hand, she searched for the light switch inside the doorjamb. Before she found it, a blur of fur raced past her, skidding to a halt in the near darkness. Reflexively she jumped and then felt foolish when she realized it was only her cat. After locating the switch, she flipped it, and light bathed the room. Griz peered up at her with wide, mirrored eyes.
    “Silly kitten, you startled me.” Meredith propped the door open with the fabric-covered brick that had served as a doorstop as far back as she could remember. “Now let’s see what we have.”
    Letting her gaze pan the room, Meredith saw an assortment that recalled her childhood. Grizabella flicked her tail from side to side and stalked into the depths of the room, weaving past the brown plastic rocking horse with its fading painted-on saddle, the schoolroom-sized blackboard and sticks of colored chalk in the tray, and most amazingly the large dollhouse that looked like a miniature of Twin Oaks. Tears threatened and won, seeping down her cheeks at the sight of her first architectural endeavor. Her father’s patience played in her memory as he taught her about jigsaws and gluing techniques, about angles and perspectives. She missed her father more than she could put into words. She would call him later to invite him and her mother to come see the place one last time before she destroyed it once and for all. Focusing on her mission settled her emotions. She brushed her cheeks dry and continued her exploration.
    A mannequin stood to one side, its wire shape allowing indecent peeks through its interior. Meredith grimaced, and then smiled, remembering its purpose. Grandma had used the dummy to make dresses for Meredith and Paulette; ugly and misshapen ones, but made with a depth of love. One of Paulette’s hand-me-downs—a light green nightmare with one sleeve longer than the other, an uneven hem, and neon green frogs boasting bright red eyes—Meredith had flatly refused to wear.
    She strode into the room to the marching beat of Crookers’s “Bust ’Em Up” and quickly searched the room for the mysterious locked trunk. Her ownership of the plantation finally gave her the right to look inside. That had been the one restriction for the girls when they played up here. They couldn’t look into or play with the trunks. The other trunks, all unlocked and secretly explored decades earlier, held old books and clothing from long-dead ancestors. The time had arrived to solve the mystery of the locked trunk. Feeling a little like Nancy Drew, she peered into the shadows and finally spotted the dark gray trunk with red leather trim. She grabbed the handles on each end and dragged the heavy box into the light.
    Squatting, she fingered the padlock hanging from the latch. Damn . She wanted in. She looked about, finally spying a rusty tool box nearly hidden beneath an old coffee table piled with newspapers and magazines. She hurried to the metal box, pulled it from under the table and quickly lifted its lid. Empty. Double damn . She slammed the lid and strode back to the trunk.
    She needed a key, or a crowbar, or a hammer and screwdriver. But she hadn’t brought those kinds of tools with her. Maybe the garage had something she could use. For now, her objective had been defeated by a simple padlock. The scent of fresh