Emma worked her way through the tables of used books laid out at a community fair in Bucks County. Books! As if she didn’t have enough of them on her bookcases and her bedside table. Balancing an armful of books—mysteries, a literary classic, two romances—she spied a familiar cover.
“It’s a Nancy Drew.” She smiled at the memory. Her mother had bequeathed her small collection to Emma, who only skimmed them—too dated for her. But she had kept a few of the titles, mostly as a reminder of her mother, who had passed on three years before.
The book, The Secret in the Old Attic, was not one she’d read. Picking it up, mostly out of curiosity, not out of a desire to buy it, Emma opened the cover to leaf through it. Instead of a full complement of pages, though, the interior was carved out to make a book safe. Within the safe lay a folded slip of paper. She smoothed out the slip. On it, in spidery handwriting: IOU.
Fascinated at the clever use of the book, Emma added it to her stack of purchases and left the sale with the bag of used volumes.
At home, she googled the topic and learned that book safes had long been a common way to hide valuables, including money. As long as you remembered which books you’d carved up, no one else would be the wiser as they perused your shelves, either as a guest or a thief.
Lured by the information, she tucked away fifty dollars in the Nancy Drew book and slipped it onto the bookshelf in her living room. An experiment, she told herself. On a run to her public library after work several weeks later Emma remembered the book safe when she passed by the children’s section on her way to the checkout.
She pulled it from the shelf when she returned home and popped it open. The bills had vanished; in their place sat a folded slip of paper. It was identical to the one she’d seen earlier, at the sale, down to the faintly creepy message.
Feeling her pulse flutter in alarm, she dropped the book and the paper. WTF? She spun in a circle to take in the room. It was empty, as was the rest of her modest ranch, but she shivered. Who had been there? And when?
As the moments ticked past, she felt silly. I must have left the slip in the book when I brought it home. As for the money, maybe she’d imagined placing it there.
“Let me try again,” she said aloud to break the spell that seemed to keep her feet glued to the floor. Digging in her wallet, she pulled out two twenties, folded them in half and dropped them into the book safe. She tossed the IOU into the recycle bin.
This time she marked her calendar: Check in one week. Determined to solve the mystery—was she now Nancy Drew?—she set up a surveillance camera aimed at the bookshelf. If there was a thief—but there couldn’t be!—the camera would capture the culprit.
When the week had crawled by, Emma eagerly jerked the book from the shelf, then hesitated. The camera hadn’t caught any strangers in her home. What would the book reveal?
Inside the safe, the same slip of paper beckoned her to unfold it. The money was gone.
“Dammit,” she said, frustration coloring her expletive. Staring at the open book for a few moments, she hit on a solution. Two can play this game. She lay the paper slip on the kitchen table, found a pen, and printed neatly: You owe me ninety bucks. Pay up! With the refolded slip back in the book safe, Emma once again reshelved the hardback.
Barely twenty-four hours passed before Emma succumbed to temptation and pulled out the book. She laughed in surprise. No more notes; the safe contained ninety dollars in crisp bills—a fifty and two twenties—all neatly folded in half.
The cycle, she decided, had ended. She would keep the Nancy Drew book, but forgo putting anything into the paper safe, lest the mystery of the borrower be reactivated.
It was later, as she sat on the couch watching an episode of Stranger Things, that she looked at the returned cash more closely. She switched off the TV and turned on a lamp to inspect. The bills felt and looked authentic—the texture, the watermark, the colors shifting in the numerals—but the portraits . . . She struggled to remember who should be there. Jefferson? Jackson? She was fairly sure a guy named McCall wasn’t one of them. She turned the bills over. On the back, although each building was identified by caption, neither the Capitol nor the White House looked familiar.
The biggest, most obvious difference stared right at her. She ran a finger along the banner words above the buildings: United Territories of America.
More of Dianna’s stories can be found in the following anthologies:
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An overnight stay at a small New England inn proves a challenge when the guests in the next room launch their own plans for the evening.
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Emma worked her way through the tables of used books laid out at a community fair in Bucks County. Books! As if she didn’t have enough of them on her bookcases and her bedside table. Balancing an armful of books—mysteries, a literary classic, two romances—she spied a familiar cover.
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