The snow was gone, the air had turned warm; winter had melted into spring and Duncan had been dead for two weeks before I found the diary.
It was a Friday afternoon sometime late in April. The rain had stopped and the sun was just beginning to break through the clouds; I wandered into the library during my lunch period and sat in an armchair by the windows, feeling the sunlight warm my skin and pulling my homework from my bag. I noticed, moments later, a book lying by my feet.
It was small, short, slim, only about the length of my hand. The cover was brown leather, soft and worn with use, with a strap that wrapped across and tied at the side—the knot was thick and complex and took me twenty minutes to undo. On the first page C. McCallister was written in sloppy cursive, the ink black and slightly smudged.
At first, I had every intention of returning it, but curiosity had gotten the better of me, and, hiding the diary in my textbook, I began to flip through the pages.

***
At the end of the day I spotted him by his locker, tearing through the assortment of books and papers and binders and pencils that were inside. He stopped, stepped back and ran his hands through his hair. I watched the expression on his face darken.
Connor knew he had lost it.
I ran to my car and my hands didn’t stop shaking until I had locked myself away in my room.
***
“Did you kill him?”
Connor looked at me in surprise as I stood at his door, his diary in my hands. It was seven a.m. on Saturday and I was exhausted—I had been up all night, tossing and turning, having nightmare after nightmare.
His dark eyes studied my face. After a long minute of silence Connor spoke.
“You stole my diary?” he asked, accusation coloring his voice.
“I found it!” I shouted, suddenly furious, “And how dare you change the subject!”
I gripped the book in my hands so hard my fingers hurt.
“So you just decided to read it?” Connor argued, obviously growing angry underneath the calm facade he was putting on.
It occurred to me that I had never really seen him get mad before. Fear sturred butterflies in my stomach.
“I was just trying to see who it belonged to,” I lied quickly.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s not my fault, it’s yours! If you had only written about football and girls like any normal guy everything would be fine, but no, you had to write about how you murdered our friend!” I cried, tears beginning to run down my cheeks.
He sighed, and the anger seemed to fade right out of him. Connor rubbed at his eyes, like the entire conversation had severely tired him.
“Duncan wasn’t—it wasn’t—Alice, it’s not what you think.”
“If you say so,” I replied, disbelief lacing my words.
Connor’s brown eyes met mine, and he looked at me desperately.
“Come in. Please, come in and I’ll explain everything.”
Wiping at my eyes I eventually nodded, and I went into my brother’s room.