My trunk didn’t lock, in fact, it was held in place by bungee wire. I unhooked it, letting the back pop open. I cursed loud and long at what I saw inside—which was really the only proper response. There, lying inside my three-tones-green round-top Chevy Chevette was a flat book of brown leather, the cover bound shut by a delicate golden string that wound around it. I hadn’t a doubt in my mind that I’d just found Demidov’s demon diary.
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