Chapter 23
THE SKELETON KEY
Random, weekend parties aren’t my scene, especially not the kind held in drafty barns with alcohol.
But Kate is going and Lainey will almost certainly be there.
So Twig, Naomi, Jude, and I pile into his BMW and make our way to the abandoned farmstead under a sliver of moonlight and an expanse of stars.
“You know,” Twig says, stepping over a fallen fence post. “According to certain accounts, the farmer who last lived here was murdered in this barn.”
“That isn’t true,” Naomi replies, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat.
“The owner went into cardiac arrest while standing in his hayloft. The coroner was certain the heart attack killed him, and there is absolutely zero evidence he was pushed. Every single rumor about bad blood between him and his son developed post mortem, because nobody in town liked the family and everyone wanted a good story.”
The three of us stop in front of a rusted length of barbed wire to gape at her.
“I overheard Kaylie Littleton talking about the barn being haunted by his vengeful spirit at lunch yesterday and I just—there’s only so much more I can take.”
Clearly Naomi—logical, grounded, practical-as-can-be Naomi—has reached her paranormal threshold.
“Impressive research,” Twig says.
“Maybe you can help us find some information about the heart stone,” Jude adds.
My stomach twists.
After our visit to Bramble’s, we went to the manor and gutted Rafe’s bedroom. We turned it upside down and inside out. The missing page from the codex was nowhere to be found. So we took to the internet and struck out just as hard.
All we know is what Mistress Bramble told us. The heart stone has the power to devour souls. Something has a hold of Jude’s. I used that stone to bring him back to life. And the terrifying tendrils that marked him upon his death have returned.
I was so hopeful our visit would provide answers, and I suppose they provided some. If only those answers brought clarity instead of dread.
Persistent, gnawing dread.
Up ahead, headlights from a truck shine on the barn. Despite a “No Trespassing” sign, the doors are open.
Inside, Christmas lights hang from the rafters, their multi-colored glow catching cobwebs as our classmates laugh and dance.
It smells like hay and beer. At one end, Brady Keller and Caleb Briggs stand behind a makeshift bar-slash-DJ booth erected from two empty barrels, a sheet of plywood, and LED strips.
Caleb plays music using his phone and a bluetooth speaker while Brady makes drinks. A long line snakes around the interior.
I spot Lainey chatting in the shadows with a group of friends, Kate included, which has Twig tensing beside me. We find an empty hay bale and park ourselves around it while Jude leans close to my ear. “I’m going to see if they have anything non-alcoholic.”
Twig goes with him, leaving me and Naomi behind.
I keep my eyes glued on Lainey.
“I feel like it was her,” I say. “If someone got into the crypt, she’s the only logical suspect.”
Naomi huffs. Perhaps it’s my use of the word logical. Or maybe she’s just tired of talking about this particular topic.
I’ve pretty much exhausted it.
“I know Lainey doesn’t know about the crypt,” I continue, unable to help myself. “But according to Rafe, Lainey isn’t Lainey. Whatever he meant by those words, I think we can at least assume she’s doing someone else’s bidding.”
Naomi purses her lips.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just…”
“You agree with the guys.” If Lainey is doing anyone’s bidding, it’s probably Rafe’s.
“He controlled her before, didn’t he? At the masquerade ball.”
“But Rafe doesn’t know about the crypt either.
” Unless, of course, he’s a ghost who was following me the day I threw the key into the well, the same day Jude and I visited the crypt to lock all the paranormal paraphernalia inside, the same day he showed up in a hospital mirror.
I don’t say any of this out loud. Doing so would only bolster Twig and Jude’s theory.
“And anyway, why would he tell me ‘Lainey isn’t Lainey’ if he’s the one controlling her? ”
“That’s a legitimate point,” Naomi says.
Across the barn, Lainey gives Brynn a playful shove, lifts her red cup, and taps it against Harrison’s while Kate watches warily.
Naomi bites her thumbnail. “Twig is so worried about her.”
“Kate?”
She nods.
“We’re all worried,” I say, looking at Naomi from the corner of my eye. “How are you holding up?”
“Other than waking up every morning completely paralyzed by the knowledge that everything you and Twig talk about on your podcast is real? Just fine.”
“Not everything,” I say, giving her a lighthearted nudge. “I mean, haunted dolls are a stretch.”
She smiles sadly. “I wish Harper believed us.”
“She didn’t want to come tonight?”
“She said she had ‘other plans.’” Naomi sighs, then returns the nudge. “How are you holding up?”
“Other than waking up every morning completely paralyzed by the mark on Jude’s chest? Just fine.”
“He says he feels okay.”
I frown at her.
“You think he’s lying?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” The muscles across my chest pull tight. “Mistress Bramble said something has a hold of his soul. And that mark on his chest looks exactly like the one he had the night he died. There’s no way he’s okay.”
Naomi shakes her head. “What a mess.”
I laugh dispassionately.
What a mess, indeed.
We watch Lainey talking animatedly with her hands. I try to catch a glimpse of her wrist, but her coat sleeves are too long.
“I keep wondering why we don’t just wack her over the head and use the dots on her wrist to force our way in.”
“Into a realm of monsters,” Naomi says.
An ecosystem built on trauma, according to Bramble.
One my mother has been living inside for five years.
Simon, for thirty.
My persistent, gnawing dread expands.
A Taylor Swift oldie plays on the bluetooth speaker.
Lainey shrieks, grabs Kate by the arm, and pulls her onto the dance floor.
Lainey jumps and spins, shaking her head, singing along.
Kate joins her half-heartedly, glancing in our direction when Lainey unzips her coat and tips her head back with a laugh.
The Christmas lights catch on a chain around her neck.
A familiar key rests in her décolletage.
My ears begin to ring.
The periphery of my vision bleeds red.
Everything else fades.
The music.
The laughter.
The sound of Naomi’s voice as she talks beside me.
“Hey, where are you going?” she calls, before I even realize I’m moving.
I stop in front of Lainey in the middle of Taylor’s song. “Where did you get that necklace?”
Kate stops dancing.
Lainey keeps moving to the beat as she takes the key between her fingers and slides it up and down the chain. “At the Lucky Penny. It’s a whole mood, isn’t it?”
“You’re a liar.”
People nearby turn to stare.
Lainey laughs. “That’s rude.”
“That necklace was my mother’s.”
“Remind me to thank her for donating it.”
“Do you have the ruby, too?” I ask. My voice is shaking. So are my knees. She has the key. She went down into the well and got it. Then she went into the crypt and let herself in. “What are you doing with it?”
She gives her hair a flip. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you using it to hurt Jude?”
Smirking, she winds a lock of hair around her finger. “I think the only person with the power to hurt Jude is… you.”
I lean back, unsure what she means.
Her smirk has turned into a grin.
A sinister, knowing grin.
I grab her elbow. “Where’s Griffin?”
“Oh my gosh, Selah,” Kate says, stepping between us. “Will you give it a rest?”
Lainey toys with the skeleton key, her grin unwavering.
I grit my teeth. “How long until he shows up dead in the river like Ivy?”
A deafening silence falls.
Even Taylor Swift has stopped singing.
Lainey presses her hand against her chest. “What a horrible thing to say, Selah.”
Kate looks absolutely appalled.
So do several others nearby.
Jude appears at my side.
“C’mon,” he says, gently pulling me away as the ringing in my ears grows louder.
I dig in my heels. “Please,” I say to Kate, “you have to believe us. She isn’t safe.”
But the plea is drown out by a ripple of cheers.
Griffin Tate has stepped inside the barn with a bottle of vodka in one hand, a case of beer in the other. “I brought the party!”
Lainey claps her hands, then throws herself at him.
They kiss.
Several catcalls follow.
Dumbstruck, I stare at Griffin’s wrist.
It glows with a pattern of dots—a different shape from Lainey’s, but the same basic idea.
The barn begins to spin.
We have a major problem.
Because Griffin isn’t Griffin.
There are two of them.