The Book of Truth

This was a former short story contest entry I did. The topic was: "And there it was, the treasure she'd seen in her dream. She pulled the dusty volume from the shelves and quickly made
her way to the antique cash register. She didn't dare open the book...yet." Word limit 1200.

“Jean, you’d be obsessed too if the same dream woke you up at 3 AM every night for the past month. I need to figure this out.” Carla’s voice was barely audible over the rain pounding on the car roof. “Wait, there’s another antique store, stop!”
As Jean swung to the curb, sending a soggy little dog scurrying from beneath the paper stand, she turned to Carla, “Look Carla,” she said impatiently, “This makes number 12. Promise this is the last?”
Carla stared at the rain briefly before looking at Jean, “I Promise, last one. But I really am glad you agreed to help me. I mean that.”
Jean smiled at her damp, longtime friend. “We’re wet already so we might as well go in.”
Screaming, arms flailing and running, they bolted into Things Unknown Antiques.
“Afternoon ladies.” The elderly voice seemed to come from nowhere.
Dripping, the girls looked up to see a wrinkled, elderly lady behind a small counter. “Look around and let me know if you need anything.”
The musty odors of rusted antiques and dusty relics were of no concern to Carla. So much stuff to search through again. Carla looked at Jean, “We’ll be here a while. That okay?”
Her tall, curly-haired friend looked down at her, “No problem. An old, purple book.” Jean confirmed again, as she had done a dozen times today.
Now experts, the two split up and began their search through the dusty, corroded relics. Trinkets, lamps, books, all scattered and mixed together throughout the store. This one would be a tough search, harder than the others. For some reason Carla gazed up at the old, high ceiling. “Wow, stuff all the way up there too!” She said out loud.
The shaky voice echoed again, “Missy, I’ve a fancy library ladder in the corner if you need it. Just roll it along.”
“Thanks.” Carla said, directing her comment up as she began climbing the creaky ladder. “Man, these ceilings must be 15 feet tall!”
“17 feet missy,” came the voice again.
Eyes looking and fingers searching every item in front of her, she somehow knew this was the place, at last. Funny, it was so vivid in her dream, yet here, so vague. Reversed reality, or just the clarity of waking with everything fresh in her mind? She wasn’t sure.
One item at a time she searched. Statue, book, trinket, teapot, a lamp. Nothing. Doll, more books, more trinkets, move the ladder. ‘Smells really bad up here,’ she thought. Next stop, the other wall.
“Anything yet Jean?”
“Nothing yet but I’m looking under everything.”
Moving the ladder to the far wall, something high up caught her eye. Something that was in with all this worthless junk, yet didn’t exactly fit somehow. ‘What is that?’ She thought. Creaking at every step, the rarely used ladder complained under all this abuse. At the top now...there it is.
With a shaking hand she reached up to grab the strange object just above her head. Then, like a blinding flash, she was reliving her repeating dream. She moved the treasure she’d seen in her dream, and there was the book. The dusty, violet book. “I found it!” She screamed, bailing to the floor below.
“Are you sure that’s it?” Jean’s voice was quivering with excitement.
“Trust me Jean, this is it! Now, in the dream I turn right and go to a cash register in the back.” She blew the dust off then moved to the right through the store.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Can’t, not yet.” Carla kept moving and looking.
“There! Jean, that cash register. What we’re looking for is underneath the drawer.”
Jean wrestled the antique register to its side then turned it over, catching the loose keys poised to fall on the floor.
“There it is!” Carla grabbed the envelope stuck to the drawer bottom, placed it into the book then headed to the front.
“How much is the book?”
“Dollar fifty missy, but that’s not all you came for, is it?”
Carla was shocked. “Wha... what do you mean?”
The wrinkled old lady looked at her, “I mean you got the letter too, that’s what I mean.”
Embarrassed, Jean turned away as Carla gave in, “Okay, so how much for the letter?”
“Letter’s free, book’s a dollar fifty.” The old lady smiled, Carla gladly paid.
Racing through the rain and bailing into the car, Jean couldn’t contain herself, “So open it! Come on, open it.”
“Can’t.” Carla said calmly.
“Can’t! What do you mean you can’t! You think I’ve been chasing all over town getting pneumonia so you can tell me you CAN’T!?”
Carla just stared out the window, “Let’s talk back at my house Jean.”
Driving like a madwoman and somehow escaping police detection, Jean blasted across town to Carla’s house, practically dragging her inside when they arrived. “Okay, you’re home now so let’s open it.”
“Can’t.” Carla’s voice shaky now.
“That’s it Carla! Give me that book so I can open it!”
“Can’t.” Carla calmly stared out the window as her friend became more homicidal.
“Carla!”
“Can’t Jean, not yet.” Jean was about to scream when the clock began to chime, four... five... six, increasing the tension.
Composed now, Carla turned and looked at Jean. “When I was six, my grandfather had a small candy store in the town where we grew up. I’d go there all the time and he’d give me licorice sticks to chew on. I loved that licorice. One day, after my grandma died, I came in and saw him writing something that he put under the drawer of his cash register. Jean, the next day they said he died of a heart attack. I thought he couldn’t live without grandma any longer, until I read that letter and this diary when they were boxing things up at the store. It was guilt that killed him.
“The store and contents were auctioned off, book and all. We all went on with our lives and forgot about it. At six, I knew what it was about and I never told anyone. I live with his truth and look at it every day Jean. I thought I could handle it until the dreams started.”
Jean interrupted, “You think this is his letter?”
Carla took a long pause, staring at the rain. “I know it is.”
“Well what about that purple book then?” Jean demanded.
“Jean, sit down. Did you ever wonder why I always made it a point to live near you after your mom died?”
Truth erupting within her, Jean began to shake.
“Jean, the violet book is grandpa’s diary and the letter his suicide note. It’s a miracle I found them.” She handed Jean the book. “Read page 33 in that diary Jean.”
Jean shakily flipped to page 33, read, then began to cry. “My mom was a single parent all her life and always told me how much she loved my father but I never knew who he was. So do I start calling you sis now or what?”
Teary eyed, Carla replied, “Well you’re younger than me but I guess I should call you auntie.”