“Why?”
“It’s complicated. It has to do with our family, but . . . actually, he doesn’t like that I’m reading it, either.”
“Oh. Well, I promise. I’ll never mention it.”
I looked at him. Should I believe him? Didn’t everything boil down finally to trust? What kind of relationship could we have if we didn’t trust each other? “There would be no way you could hurt me worse than if you did that, Kane.”
“I understand. I’ll never do anything to hurt you, Kristin.” He smiled. “I’m still willing to write it in blood. Why exactly is your father so adamant about it?”
“Okay,” I said, deciding I would trust him. “When my father was first inspecting the foundation at Foxworth, I went along, and he and one of his employees found a locked box. They thought they had found something valuable, like jewelry or even money, but when it was opened, this was in it.”
“Foxworth? You mean, that diary belonged to someone who lived there?”
“Someone who didn’t want to live there. This is Christopher Dollanganger’s diary, his story about what happened in the attic.”
Kane’s face lit up with surprise and excitement. “I never believed most of it. I thought it was all just exaggerated and distorted.”
“The basic story is true. Four children were locked in the house and spent years mainly in the attic. Christopher was the oldest. I’ve read up to here slowly,” I said, indicating my bookmark. “It’s not easy to take.”
“Is that why your father doesn’t want you to read it?”
“Yes. He’s afraid it will have a bad effect on me. They are, as you know and I’m often reminded, distant relatives of mine.”
Kane smiled. “I don’t see how it could harm you. It’s just someone’s diary.”
“It’s more than that. There’s no way for you or anyone else to understand until you read it.”
“I see. From the little I did read, it looks like it’s well written. He must have been a pretty smart kid.”
“Very intelligent.”
“I’d like to read it, too,” Kane said. “With you, I mean. I would have to catch up to where you are, of course.”
“Really?”
“Sure. It’s obvious that it’s important to you, and what’s important to you is important to me, but I guess I’m also very curious about it.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s better to have another opinion about it all, Kristin, and from the way it sounds, your father’s not going to read it.”
“Hardly.”
“So?”
“We’d have to read it here. I wouldn’t let this out of my house.”
“Tell me something hard to do,” he replied. “I’ll tell you what. Once I catch up to where you are, I’ll read it aloud to you. It’s written by a boy, so I’ll pretend to be him.”
“You’d want to do that?”
“Absolutely. It’ll be more . . . interesting for both of us. What is it they always tell us in literature class, you’ve got to identify with the character, care about him or her, to really enjoy or get into the story?”
“Yes.”
He reached for the diary. “So. Let’s do it the right way,” he said.
I gave it to him, and he stared at it and then looked at me.