Take a long sip of milk, like you’ve been in the desert for weeks, then shrug and say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Later at dinner, your grandmother asks if you’ve seen the magnifying glass. Consider it your inheritance-they were your father’s books, after all. Stuff as many books as you can fit into your duffel bag. You look nothing like her-even the angles of her limbs exude confidence-but maybe one day, you could. You like the sound of it: no-nonsense, sharp. Even through the magnifying glass, the shadows remain blurry, vague. Shadowy figures loom in the background: a haunted mansion, an inky forest, the dark posture of a man, one arm always raised. Each cover features a young slender woman, stylishly dressed, hunched over, clutching a clock or jewels or yellowed scroll, blue eyes wide with the clarity only a secret can endow. Pull out the collection of yellowed spines. Upstairs in your father’s childhood bedroom, thumb through the dusty books on the weathered shelf. The word sounds made-up, an abracadabra of syllables. “They’re anthropomorphic.” This he says with slow triumph, as if it’s a secret word you couldn’t possibly know, a word that only fifth graders could understand, not lowly seven-year-olds like you. “They’re not just squirrels,” he insists. He does not want to go explore he does not want to play outside. In the living room, your brother is reading a book about an army of brave squirrels. When she’s not looking, steal the magnifying glass in the kitchen drawer.
#BEST DETECTIVE GAMES LIKE NANCY DREW FULL#
Your grandmother’s house is stuffy and dark, full of mysteries.
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