Peter woke up on Wednesday. He cried when he saw what I’d done to his arm, cursed my name, told me to die. He’s young. He’ll understand, in time.
Things are calm here, or seem to be, at least. All my guests are taking full advantage of a chance to rest in comfortable and relatively secure surroundings while they can. They all have business to attend to, of course, and won’t be staying long, but they seem to be enjoying themselves while they’re here. Emily has decided to peruse my library and select a few more tomes for her collection.
I just saw what I wrote. When did this become “my library”?
It’s not mine. This library is part of the Prendergast legacy. A Vanderwaal has no more claim here than the lingering dust.
I’ve been here too long. I need to get out. I need to do things.
I can’t stay.