Mother led our not-so-merry band down the wooden stairs hidden behind a doorway in the living room and into the cold basement. As we descended, the musty smell of mold struck my nose. I cringed, hoping the books hadn’t spent too much time in the damp environment.

The unfinished basement was far cleaner and emptier than I remembered, devoid of the countless boxes and random items that had once spilled over the shelves. Here and there, old, sun-bleached toys sat on the wooden shelves, kept by our mother for her eventual grandkids. Boxes labeled for Christmas were the only items off the shelves, sitting in front, ready to be moved upstairs for the Christmas season.

We circled the stairs, heading toward a small shelf in the back corner where old, fraying cardboard boxes sat on mostly bare shelves.

“Your father and I have been working on cleaning out the basement,” she explained at Ember and I’s awed looks, gesturing around the basement as she spoke. At one point, the entire basement had been filled to nearly hoarding levels with Ember and I’s college furniture and items, coupled with my father’s woodworking and mother’s odd collections. “We found it buried behind a box of old photos.”

She reached for a medium-sized box on the highest shelf, grimacing as the bottom of the box sagged beneath the weight of the books. I quietly steadied the box, taking it from her without a word and noting how light it felt. I carefully set the precious cargo on the floor as the clod seeped into my knees through the thin padding of my khakis. Ember leaned over the opposite edge of the box, her eyes glistening with impatience while Mother smiled from where she leaned against the shelf.

Feeling like Christmas had come early, I pried apart the folded tabs, revealing the hidden dust-covered books.

“The Sinclair Harris detective novels!! It’s been ages since I’ve read any of them!” Ember exclaimed, plucking one from the pile. She ran her fingers over the thin paper cover that was classic for the novels of its time.

Way back when Ember and I were in school, the Sinclair Harris novels were one of the few book series we both agreed were fantastic. Written in the 1940s and inspired by the more famous detective novels that preceded them, the Sinclair Harris novels were a tribute to all the mysteries that came before, culminating experiences and styles to build heartfelt, solvable cases with moving characters and thought-provoking storylines. They’d been aimed at a younger generation, attempting to act as a gateway between more child-aimed series such as Nancy Drew and The Boxcar Children and adult-targeted novels such as Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, or Sherlock Holmes. The series started with Sinclar encountering his first murders and mysteries in high school and following through much of his adult life as a police consultant like all the best before him.

He was a lonely sort of character, someone who had focused more on his studies than the interpersonal relationships surrounding him. I’d found a friend and a hero in the character, seeing much of myself in him. That was until Father, in one of his drunken episodes, had collected and taken the entire series from us before we’d finished, complaining that I, in particular, shouldn’t hole myself up in my room all day, reading.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

With the books gone and the chaos that followed shortly after, I’d spent months purposefully not thinking of the books, childishly blaming them for my father’s issues. If they hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have read them. If I hadn’t read them, he wouldn’t have been angry about it, right? By the time I was old enough and willing to see the folly in my logic, I’d already become an expert in forgetting. I hadn’t given them a single thought in ages, and now, looking at the books, I felt oddly guilty, as though I’d betrayed a friend.

I felt along the slightly fraying edges of the book's spines. One of the novels in particular jumped out at me, and I pulled it from the rest, turning it over in my hands.

“Ugh,” Ember shuddered, looking at the title in my hands. “I couldn’t trust anyone for ages after reading that. Still don’t like people with puppets.”

The book in question was the seventh in the Sinclair Harris series, titled A Case of Puppets and Monsters.

I thumbed through the book's pages, recalling the quite traumatizing story as I skimmed. A Case of Puppets and Monsters shone brighter than all the rest I’d read in my mind, having been quite the traumatizing and wold-altering story at the early age we’d read it. The criminal in the novel was particularly manipulative and monstrous, playing people like the puppets he so loved and causing a great deal of trouble for our favorite detective.

“I can’t believe they’ve been down here all this time,” Ember mused. She angled the title of A Case of Bullets and Roses at me. “Remember the fight we had while reading this?”

“We argued over every volume.”

Ember frowned. “Not every one.”

“Just about.”

“So,” our Mother interrupted with a bright smile. “I’m assuming you want them?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Of course!”

Our mother disappeared as Ember and I looked suspiciously at each other, our hands reaching for the box.

“We’re going to be adults about this, right?” Ember asked, letting her hand hover over the edge.

“Want me to flip a coin?”

Ember shot me a shart, calculating look. “No way! You know I always lose!”

So, she’d finally caught on. When we were in high school, I’d discovered how terrible Ember’s luck was. Out of ten coin flips, she’d somehow manage to guess all ten wrong. Of course, like any good sibling, I’d used this to my advantage as much as I could, earning first pick to many items over the years.

“Let’s do rock paper scissors,” she suggested instead.

I shrugged. While there were a few I desperately wanted, I could easily find and purchase most online. Losing the books wasn’t a huge deal. Losing to Ember, however, would always rankle.

We sat across the box, fist to palm. “Rock, paper, scissors–”

I prepared to throw out rock, knowing Ember usually chose scissors. A phantom image crossed before my eyes of Ember casting paper instead. At the last possible second, I switched my choice to scissors, winning first pick.

I held the book in my hands close to my chest, and back and forth our choices went until we’d each picked out nearly a dozen books, clearing the box.