“Who’s this?” I ask, pointing to a solo shot of a man of about 30. “He looks a lot like you.” “That’s grandpa,” Greg grins. “Wow, you really do look just like him.” “That’s what everyone says. I look nothing like either of my parents, so it’s nice to have some family resemblance. Otherwise I’d think I was the milkman’s kid.” I laugh with understanding. “My sisters and I look completely different. Cat looks like dad, though I’m not sure she thinks that’s a compliment. But she has his dark complexion and curly hair. Nan has our mom’s coloring and stature. I don’t really look like anyone, other than the brown hair. I’m told I look like my great grandmother, but I think they might just say that to comfort me.” “Is your family close?” he asks. It seems he’s okay with a bit of personal sharing, or at least mine. “Very. It’s a bit tough being away from everyone, especially Cat, being in London.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted out loud to anyone here that I am slightly homesick. “But I’m really enjoying it here so far,” I add quickly. I don’t want him to think I was some sappy girl that couldn’t be away from her family. Why it matters to me, I’m not entirely sure, but it seems appropriate. “How about your family?” I venture, to turn the subject away from myself. “We are. I always wished I’d had more siblings though. My brother and I are close, but I would have liked to have a younger brother or sister. Though,” he added, “I might have been a bit overprotective of a younger sister.” I couldn’t quite tell if he was thinking out loud or directing it towards me. He seemed a little lost in his thoughts.
“So, I think I found grandpa’s work,” he says finally, picking up a dusty box. “I can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a shot.” We open the box, immediately inhaling dust, and I swat it away. “Sorry,” Greg looks at me apologetically. “Oh, it kind of comes with the territory. Usually, I find the dustier the box, the better the contents.” Greg starts pulling out a couple of smaller boxes and a photo album hidden inside. One of the boxes is marked ‘Sheffield’, the other ‘Julienne’. “He had an entire box for Julienne?” Greg looks skeptical. “Maybe about her disappearance?” I offer. “Maybe he found more than we realized. And you said he visited her and the girls, right?” Greg gently pulls open the ‘Julienne’ box and exposes a stack of black and white photos. I pick up the top one, a candid of Julienne bending down and playing with one of the girls. Instinctively, I turn the photo over and see the marking Julienne and Annaleigh, 1926. The next is Julienne with Johanna and James. Each picture is carefully labeled with the subjects and the date - usually just the year, but occasionally the month or even the day. I wonder why he would label them alternately, but then noticed that the writing is different.
“Did your grandfather take all of these?” I ask Greg. “No, I don’t think so. I think many of them he collected as “evidence,” and others he took himself. Some, Julienne may even have given him. Why?” “They’re labeled differently is all. The writing on the ones that are just labeled with the year is more loopy and broad. Looks a bit more like a woman’s writing. The ones carefully labeled with the month or day looks flatter, less decipherable.” “In other words,” Greg teases, “more like a man’s writing.” “You got it!” I smile. “Let me see them, I’ll know if any of it’s my grandfather’s writing.” I hand him the stack of photos I’d looked through so far. “These here,” he indicates the ones labeled with month and day, “are my grandfather’s writing. I’m guessing he must have taken them, since they’re so specifically dated. Otherwise, how could he know?” I nod in agreement.
The pictures all have one thing in common - Julienne is in every single one of them. I am not entirely sure why he would need all of these for investigation, but Greg said they’d become somewhat close, and perhaps in the wake of her disappearance, he’d gathered them for safe-keeping. He was, afterall, the only one that seemed overly concerned with her well-being other than perhaps Sharpe. The last picture in the stack is a close up of Julienne and a nice-looking young man. The back is labeled simply, Julienne and E.S. (1926?). It looks like the handwriting of Greg’s grandfather, but the fact that it isn’t labelled so diligently, that he hadn’t even known the year, strikes me as odd. “Edward Sharpe?” I murmur, half to myself, half to the air. “Must be.” “Odd that your grandfather looks to have labeled it, but didn’t even know the year. Do you think he took it?” “I have no idea. It clearly was a close up shot, and I can’t imagine why he’d be that close to them, unless they asked for a photo, which would strike me as unusual.” “Since they seemed to be hiding whatever relationship they had from everyone but him,” I finish what he left unsaid. He nods, “In the background you can see a faint image of a marquee. The south end of Harbour Street had a cinema back in the day. Well, it’s still there, but in ruins. I keep saying they should do something with it. Anyway, it’s possible it was there. The details of the marquee are too faint to make out, but it’s the only place I can think it would be.” I examine the picture closer. They are both dressed nicely, at least from what I can see, and Julienne is smiling broadly - not the forced, sad smile from the staged picture with the flower, but a genuine, happy smile. “A date?” I wonder out loud. Though why Greg would know more than I, I’m not sure. “It looks like it,” he agrees. “If Edward was the creepy, stalker that everyone tried to convince themselves of, he certainly had Julienne fooled here.” “She looks genuinely happy, and so does he.” “It’s kind of odd for them to have such a close up candid on a date,” I muse. Then, realizing his grandfather had labeled, and possibly taken, the photo, I add, “Maybe it was a special event where there would have been a photographer.” To my relief, Greg sounds as skeptical as I am. “I don’t know. I know my grandfather wrote on the back, but I don’t think he took it. First, he just wasn’t this great of a photographer. If you compare the ones labeled in what we think is a woman’s handwriting, they’re much clearer than the ones grandpa took. He could have gotten lucky, but then he certainly would have known when it was taken.”
I briefly wonder if his grandfather had been one of those men he claimed were smitten with Julienne, and had not wanted anyone to know he’d taken the picture, but I dismissed it. If he had, why include it here? He’d organized everything so well, surely he would have thought to hide it or toss it when he handed the box over to Greg. As if reading my mind, Greg says, “he might have had a soft spot for her, felt bad for her and the girls, but he wasn’t the type to follow her on a date. I think he was more like a protective cousin or something. She seemed so sad all the time.’ He looks at the picture again. “Well, almost all of the time.” “I’d noticed that too. In the unsolved local mysteries book, there was a photo of her in the backyard. She was smiling, but she looked as though she wasn’t really there, like she was mentally somewhere else. She was clearly trying to pose happily for the photographer, but I could tell she wasn’t. At best, she looked distracted.” “That’s how she seems in most of these photos too. There’s something dull in her eyes, except when it’s just her and the girls, or her and Sharpe.” He’s right. The posed shots, as much as she tried to look content, she just didn’t.
“Are there any more photos of Sharpe?” “Somewhere. Grandpa said he took some and gave them to her. Even he said she looked the happiest when she was with him.” “Greg?” I start. “Hmm?” “Do you think she disappeared on her own accord? Or someone else’s?” “Well,” he says slowly, “I don’t think she was killed. I have no evidence, it’s just a gut feeling. She may have vanished at someone’s suggestion, or coercion, but I think she and the girls left that house one hundred percent alive.” I share his viewpoint, but am curious as to what makes him feel that way, and ask him as much. “After the parents died, or disappeared, the only people who really knew her were Grandpa and Sharpe. She trusted them both, from everything Grandpa has told me, and I don’t think either would dare harm her. I know grandpa wouldn’t have.”
“Do you think the parents died?” I don’t know why his opinion makes me feel more
confident about my own, but it does. Perhaps it’s the fact that his grandfather shared his first hand experience with him. Either way, he seems plenty happy to put up with my questioning. “I’m not sure why, but I think they probably did.” I nod my agreement, and he continues. “The police, other than Grandpa, didn’t seem to want to investigate. If they thought their chief was alive, I can’t imagine they wouldn’t turn this town upside down. I mean he wasn’t the most popular, but I am sure they’d want to find him.” “That makes sense. Although I find it odd that as soon as the bodies turned up, they assumed it was Johanna and James.” “It’s a small town, and I don’t think there were a lot of missing bodies at the time. Plus, I think sometimes people just want an answer, even if it’s not the right one. They need closure, you know?” “But there’s no closure, not knowing what happened,” I point out. “True, but Sheffield was an only child, I don’t think either set of grandparents was alive, and Johanna only had the one sister. Other than that, it was Julienne and the girls, and the girls were too young to really understand more than that their parents were gone - at least the younger two were.” “Johanna’s sister didn’t do anything at all from what I can tell. She’s not mentioned once in any piece of investigation I’ve seen.” “Honestly,” Greg agrees, “I think she knew more than she let on, but that’s just my opinion.” It seems reasonable, given her complete lack of interest in either solving the disappearance or contact with the girls.
Greg pulls out a few more pictures, several with the three girls. I pull one of the pictures closer, noticing something in the background. “The door,” I mutter, catching myself by surprise. “Which door?” Greg looks at me curiously. “In the background. That’s the door that’s locked in my spare bedroom. Except in this photo, it’s open. Just slightly, but I can see it. So they used it during those years for sure.” “You can’t use it now?” I realize I haven’t told Greg anything about the door at all. “No, it’s locked with seemingly no way to open it. There’s a keyhole, but I haven’t found a key anywhere. I feel like it’s important somehow, but I don’t know how. I can’t explain it. My sister Nan had dreams about it.” I pause, realizing I’m rambling. “I’m sorry, I probably sound ridiculous.” “Not at all,” he assures me, sounding genuine. “What kind of dreams?”
“Well, she said that she kept looking for the other entrance to it outside and couldn’t find it. In another, she dreamt she was exploring whatever was behind it, I think. She was really freaked out, and Nan doesn’t freak out easily about that kind of thing. In fact, she always makes fun of me for it. “Hmmm,” Greg looks genuinely interested. “So, you know it has another end, a tunnel, basically, and that it comes out somewhere outside?” “Actually, no. We know nothing about it. When we knocked on the door, it sounded hollow, which makes us think it goes a ways back. If it does, it makes sense that it’s some sort of a tunnel or passageway, or at best a large storage area. It doesn’t seem to connect anywhere in the house, at least not that we could see, so I guess it makes sense that it would lead outside. If it leads anywhere.” Greg nods. “Perhaps an escape route in case of emergency? He was a police chief, after all, so safety was probably in the forefront of his mind.” “That’s what I thought too. Though if it’s for safety purposes, why throw away the key?” “Was it definitely locked from the time that they lived there on?” “Not necessarily,” I shake my head. “Honestly, I really have no information about it, just my hunch that it’s somehow important. This is the first time I’ve seen any evidence of it ever having been opened, in fact.” “It is odd,” Greg agrees. “If it were a safety route, why would it be locked with no apparent key? Do you think it could have served another purpose - a vault perhaps?” “That’s a good suggestion. It’s just, Nan’s dream…”
I stop when I see Greg giving me a funny smile. “You probably think I’m crazy. Investigating a 90 year old mystery for fun, talking about dreams and secret passages. Hell, most normal people would have probably run screaming when they found out that their home was the site of an unsolved disappearance.” Greg shakes his head, “No, I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I think you’re fascinating. Besides, I’m the one who hoarded his dead grandfather’s fake investigation notes all these years.” “Then why the funny smile?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “I just told you. I find you fascinating. Plus, I was wondering - my mind wanders easily - how come your sisters were named for queens, but you were named for Henry, the king, and more obviously, a man?” I had spent my life explaining my name, and I really wasn’t in the mood to do so again. But I reminded myself that he had in fact complimented me - something I wasn’t used to hearing, at least from a man in a non-professional setting, in quite a while. “Honestly, I think they were just hoping for a boy. Plus, they are big fans of Henry. Well, maybe not fans, but to use your word, fascinated by him. I don’t think they could let go of the idea of having a child named after the king. I used to hate my name. I’ve spent my whole life defending it.” I realize I sound harsher than I’d intended. “I’m sorry,” Greg interjects. “I wasn’t making fun of it, and I didn’t mean to put you on the defensive. I think it’s a very pretty name. He puts a hand on my arm, to emphasize his apology. I’m not sure how I feel about the more intimate touch, but I let it stay there until he gently removes it a few seconds later. I already potentially offended him, and I’m honest with myself, it’s nice to have someone comfort me, even if over something trivial.
“So what would your parents have done if one of your sisters had been a boy? I can’t imagine they would have named their kids Henrietta and Henry?” He pauses. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to. Man, I’m such an idiot sometimes, you just said you were sick of talking about it.” “No,” I shake my head, “It’s ok. I actually don’t mind. I feel bad that I snapped at you earlier. I asked my mom the same question. She said that after I was born in an obvious effort to thwart their plans for a boy - I guess reproductive genetics didn’t mean much to them - she knew she’d have all girls. But when I pressed her, she said she would have chosen Edmund or Owen.” “Henry’s grandfather and great-grandfather,” Greg acknowledges. “Yep. Wow, my family, we really are huge nerds, aren’t we?” I laugh. “Well…” Greg teases. “I’m kidding. In all seriousness, I think that’s pretty cool - in a nerdy sort of way,” he smiles, and I can tell that any momentary hurt at my earlier bristling has been forgiven. “Besides, you’re talking to someone who teaches British History.” I almost forgot Greg’s career. We’ve been so involved in discussing his grandfather and his connection to the Sheffield family, that it slipped my mind.
When I look back at him, he’s turned serious. “Can I be bold and ask you something personal?” I must look skeptical, because he quickly adds, “If not, it’s ok. I know we just met. It’s just that, well, I’m enjoying getting to know you.” “Getting to know me? Here I thought you were just using my investigative skills to help you solve your grandfather’s mystery,” I joke. I grin to ensure he knows I’m poking fun at him, but there’s no need. He’s looking at me with that unfortunately charming smile again. “And yes, ask away,” I add. It makes me nervous, but as much as I hate to admit it, I’m enjoying getting to know him too. I realize, as I steal a glance at my watch, that we’ve been in the attic for over three hours, and much of our conversation has had nothing to do with the box holding his grandfather’s documents. Greg stands silent for a moment, probably asking the question in his head first - something I wish I did more often. Finally, he speaks. “Did you get hurt recently?” I legitimately misunderstand him. “Hurt? Like injured?” “No, I mean emotionally. By someone close to you. A man perhaps?” When I don’t answer for a minute, debating how much to tell him, he shakes his head in regret. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.” “I had a bad breakup about eight months ago.We’d been together for five years. He just decided he didn’t love me anymore. At least not enough to stay in the relationship.” “That’s w
hy you came here. To Massachusetts I mean. To start fresh. ”
“Yes,” I reply. “At least in part. I always felt I was holding back on my dream of writing a novel. It sounds cheesy, I know…” “No it doesn’t, not at all.” Greg interrupts. “Sorry, go ahead.” “Brent, my ex-boyfriend, was very practical and logical. His dreams were of promotions at work, salary increases, having that nice house and a better car. He wasn’t superficial really, but having those things made him feel comfortable in life. And it’s not that those things aren’t good goals. They just weren’t mine. Or at least they weren’t in the forefront of my mind.” I stop, afraid I’m babbling. I’ve kept silent with everyone for so long about the breakup, and it feels good to talk. “And he didn’t understand your creative dreams, so you didn’t feel like you could pursue them while you two were together,” Greg finishes for me. I nodded. He has surprisingly accurate insight for a man, I think, then scold myself for the generalization.
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