It was still light out when I pulled up at Gran's house again, the sunlight bathing a yard overgrown in her absence. Mark, the landscaper, had arranged to come out the next day to do some work on the place. Things inside were moving slowly, but at least the outdoors could be tamed.

I parked behind Gran's car and peered up at the front of the house. It was a beautiful building, and there was no indication from the outside that anything nefarious waited within.

You could just call Anabel. She's the nicest person ever. She'll let you come crash at her place.

You're taking advantage of her kindness. You didn't want to shoulder Colson with your bullshit, but you'll let Ana take it on?

I shook my head at myself. This was my problem to deal with.

I sent a quick text to my family group message.

ME: Still alive for the moment

ME: Went to see Royal and Mary Ellen today

I made it up to the house before my phone buzzed with a response. I unlocked the front door and opened it to a very enthusiastic Porkie.

"Hey, girl." I knelt down to pet her and rub her ears, which was challenging, because despite her age she was vibrating with excitement. It was kind of nice to have somebody so happy to see you, especially when you weren't very happy to come home. "You need to go out?"

She shot past me, crossing the porch with a rattle of toenails. She slowed as she braved the steps down into the yard, but she made it. I watched her for a moment before checking my texts.

MOM: Oh, Tabbycat, that's wonderful

MOM: How are they holding up?

ME: Royal's doing okay. Mary Ellen is doing okay too, all things considered.

MOM: Did she recognize you

ME: I think she recognized Royal recognizing me if that makes sense

MOM: I'm so glad you got to see them. It probably meant so much to him

ME: It was nice.

It had been nice...but I couldn't shake the discomfort about how Royal had pursued the topic of the diaries. Hadn't he understood why I felt they should go to my mother?

Then again, Royal was Gran's brother. He'd known her longer than any of us had, so maybe he had a point. He had loved her when she'd been a silly girl writing in her diary, way before any of the rest of us had been alive.

Maybe the books did belong to him.

It just didn't feel quite right.

ME: By the way I found something you might be interested in

ME: Gran wrote some diaries

ME: Just two of them, one from when she was young and one from recently

MOM: Really?

TIM: Hey cool that you saw Uncle Royal

ME: Yeah I'm reading them bit by bit, they're really cool but it feels wrong to binge them

MOM: Oh honey

TIM: Yeah tab, it's gran's legacy, not Netflix. Have some respect.

ME: 🖕

MOM: Tabitha

ME: It's how we say hello in Iowa

MOM: Stop it.

TIM: Ha ha Tabitha got in trouble

MOM: Both of you.

TIM: 😨

TIM: But I'm the baby

I glanced up to see where Porkie was. She was just standing there in the grass, gazing out toward the pond again. She could probably smell something I couldn't. Frogs, maybe.

TIM: And your favorite

TIM: You can't yell at me!

ME: Anyway Uncle Royal wants the diaries but I think you should have them

ME: Let me know, I don't want to get into a family battle

TIM: please don't get arrested for punching Iowan octogenarians

TIM: I am a father now and all the money I was saving for your bail has gone into cheerios and Clorox wipes

MOM: I still say some germs do kids good, it builds immunity

TIM: By all means, have that conversation with my nurse of a wife

I browsed for the perfect GIF response as the conversation about Tim's tiny plague factories and sanitation schedule continued, but my efforts were half-hearted; I was too distracted by the prospect of conflict over Gran's diaries, and Mom hadn't really responded to my comments. I didn't mention to them that something hadn't felt quite right about Uncle Royal's interest. I wouldn't have called it a sense of foreboding, exactly, but there was certainly something off. Maybe there was a reason he had been so adamant.

Maybe there was something in those diaries that Royal didn't want anybody to see.

Well, obviously. Gran could tell a good story. There have to be a few stories about Uncle Royal in those books, and probably embarrassing ones, too.

That was probably all it was. Or it could simply be that he was sentimental—he'd confessed as much to me over dinner. The poor man was so sensitive that he had never been able to come back to Gran's house after his mother died. Imagine, living less than half an hour's drive away from the house you grew up in and being unable to set foot inside the place because it made you too sad.

I wasn't going to solve any of these problems standing on the front porch, though. I'd eventually have to go inside.

"Come, Porkie!" I called. She didn't seem to want to listen until I added, "Want some dinner?"

That was a word she recognized. She trotted my way with a spring in her stubby step, and she preceded me into the house. It was quiet inside, settled, exactly as I had left it. I looked around me as I headed into the kitchen. There, I served Porkie up a generous helping of kibble, to which she attended with vigor.

As I straightened, the rancid smell struck me again. "Ugh. You still haven't found that smell for me?"

She ignored me, focused on her food. I sighed, going through the motions of checking the sink, the garbage, and the refrigerator. Spurred by the knowledge that Ana had noticed the smell, too, I didn't give up this time. When I ventured to the pantry, it faded. It was somewhere around the sink.

I checked the cupboard underneath the sink, but it smelled like cleaning products, old wood, and artificial lemon. The next cupboard over was crammed with baking pans of every description. I moved the stacks enough to peer into the back corners of the cupboard to validate that there were no old mouse traps back there, thank God.

When I opened the next cupboard, the smell punched me in the face. I put my arm over my nose and fell back onto my heels, gagging.

It was a bag of potatoes, well past their prime.

"Are you kidding me?"

Disgusted, I plucked the bag up by the plastic cinched at the top. When I lifted it, I made sure it wasn't leaking before I hurried it over to the garbage can. Left behind in the cupboard were glass casserole dishes and more baking pans, which I took out and piled immediately into the dishwasher.

For the next several minutes, I worked on eliminating any trace of the awful smell. I wiped down, sanitized, and deodorized the cupboard, and I left the doors open to air out. Under the sink, I found an old box of baking soda, which I tore open and put into the cupboard for good measure.

"That's another mystery solved," I said at last, finally daring a breath through my nose. The smell wasn't gone entirely, but it was clouded by the sharp scent of cleaner and sanitizer. "Thank God it wasn't a mouse, but holy shit. I never knew potatoes could reek like that."

I took the garbage out and sprayed another couple puffs of air freshener, just for good measure. Then I made myself a cup of chamomile tea. Finally, I led Porkie into the living room to settle down for a quiet evening. I didn't know yet whether I would advocate for Uncle Royal getting Gran's diaries or not, but I knew one thing.

No one was going to get them until I'd read them all, cover to cover, and I wasn't going to rush that experience. As Tim had said, this wasn't a streaming binge: it was my grandmother's final months of life.

I was going to take my time.