brown leather-bound books inside. No money. No jewels. Nothing of value really —at least not monetary value. I hadn’t been hoping for those things honestly, but I’m still surprised to find none, considering that’s what most people use safes for. I reach in and grab the journals, reveling in the feel of the buttery soft leather under my fingertips. A smile breaks across my face as I trail my fingers over the inscription on the first book. Genevieve Matilda Parsons. My great-grandmother—Nana’s mother. The very woman in the picture concealing the safe, notorious for her red lipstick and bright smile. Nana always said she went by the name Gigi. A quick look at the other two books reveals the same name. Her diaries? They have to be. Dazed, I walk to my bedroom, close the door behind me and settle down on my bed, legs crossed. A leather cord is wrapped around each book, holding them closed. The outside world fades as I grab the first journal, carefully unwrap the cord, and open the book. It is a diary. Every page has an entry written in a feminine script. And at the bottom of each page is my great-grandmother’s trademark lipstick kiss. She died before I was born, but I grew up hearing countless stories about her. Nana said she inherited her wild personality and sharp tongue from her mother. I wonder if Nana ever knew about the diaries. If she’s ever read them. If Genevieve Parsons is as wild as Nana said she was, then I imagine these diaries have all sorts of stories to show me. Smiling, I open the other two books and confirm the date on the first page of each book to ensure I’m starting from the beginning. And then I stay up all night reading, growing more disturbed by each entry.