The name Paige Turner Nau was no longer a joke. It was a map. Paige, the seeker of stories. Turner, the one who changed them. And Nau, the anchor that kept her from floating away. For the first time, she was all three at once. And she was finally, impossibly, enough.
It was sudden—an aneurysm that burst like an overripe berry. Paige inherited the small, cluttered house by the bluffs, the seven overstuffed bookcases, and a single, heavy key. paige turner nau
The key was brass, old, and smelled of basement. She found it in a hollowed-out copy of The Secret Garden on her mother’s nightstand. Tied to it was a scrap of paper in Eleanor’s looping hand: For Paige Turner Nau. The last story. The name Paige Turner Nau was no longer a joke