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eighteenth birthday present, that was more of a gift to me than it was to you. I hope you like it and can find some use for it.
    Visit Paul as soon as you can. You will understand even more clearly when you do.
    Love a lways,
    Mom'
     
    Before I could ask, Salem passed me a present . This led me to believe he had read the letter, but I ignored that thought. I ripped the bright pink wrapping paper away, revealing a simple cardboard box. It wasn't taped, but the flaps had been folded so it wouldn't open. I popped up the flaps to reveal a black, leather bound book. When I opened it, the pages were blank. I looked at Salem, as if he might have an answer for me.
    “What is it?” h e leaned over to have a peek.
    “Is this some sort of diary?” I laughed. Mom should have known by now that I had no interest in a diary. I had never written in one before, why would I start now?
    “I suppose it must be,” h e looked a little shocked, as if he was expecting something entirely different. “Whatever it is, your mom wanted you to have it a nd that's all that is important,” h e smiled.
    “Please tell me this isn't what I waited four hours for.”
    “It isn't,” h e glanced away from me, his eyes turned toward the vast window behind the sectional. “Now that you are eighteen, your mother thinks you can handle the truth,” h e sighed heavily. “I don't know why I was the one left with this task.”
    “The truth about what?” I demanded.
    “ Your heritage, your real family,” h e glanced up at me, “I know this is all very sudden, and it is going to be confusing and hurtful, but I need you to listen. Janet isn't your real mother, Alexis. Nor is Desmond your father.”
    I nearly laughed, but stopped myself when I noticed how serious Salem was. “Of course they are my parents! I have been with them all my life!”
    He smiled warmly and took my hand, leading me to the sofa. I sat down hesitantly beside him. “Paul is your real father.”
    “As in my Uncle Paul?” I shook my head and laughed. “That's not possible. Is this some sort of birthday prank? ”
    “Think about it, Alexis.”
    And I did. I thought hard, picturing Desmond and Janet in my mind. I looked nothing at all like them. My father was dark-skinned, lanky and there was no resemblance between him and me. My mother and I may have shared the same dark brunette hair and light complexion, but everything else about us was different. My head was spinning, this was too much.
    “Relax, ” Salem whispered, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It is going to take some adjusting to, but in time it will all make sense. I promise.”
    “Why has Paul been keeping this from me?” I wanted to cry, to scream, to escape. This was all too much in one day.
    “He had to wait. It wasn't safe until now, ” Salem's blue eyes were serious again. “Have you ever read about the Salem Witch Trials?”
    Why was he suddenly changing the subject? I nodded slowly, recalling reading about it in middle school.
    “Remember how I told you my name was a bit contradictory?”
    “Yeah, sure, ” I remembered it more than I wanted to admit.
    “My mother was an ancestor to Alice Young,” he spoke quietly, “s he was the first witch to be executed during the Trials. Do you understand how this is contradictory?”
    “Yes...” I muttered. “What does this have to do with anything?”
    “The world isn't as simple as it might seem, Alexis,” h e stared out the window behind us. The water rippled elegantly, the bright moonlight reflected upon the lake's surface. “Coincidences simply aren't coincidental.”
    The cake. The cake wasn't coincidental? On came the spinning again. “What are you trying to tell me, Salem?” I gasped, trying to breathe.
    “Calm down,” he whispered, “t he witches in Massachusetts were real witches.”
    I shook my head in disbelief. “Ar e you trying to tell me that you’re a witch?”
    “Warlock would b e the correct term,” he replied with mild