Chapter 42
CHRISTMAS EVE
As Dad and I walk along the shoveled path through the courtyard, the manor looks like it belongs in a gothic Christmas snow globe.
The sharp roofline glitters in the moonlight, its steep gables and spires softened by snowcaps.
Tall chimneys exhale smoke. A candle glows in every frosted window and twin wreathes cast twisting shadows down the front doors.
Three cars are parked along the circular drive.
I recognize two of them.
The Calloways are here. So are Naomi and her parents.
I lift the brass knocker while Dad tugs at his tie.
Tulane greets us with his trademark bow.
Behind him, a massive evergreen dominates the antechamber, decorated with burgundy ribbon and glass ornaments. I peek at the library, which I’ve been fixating on ever since I remembered Honey and Mom’s suggestion to write her a goodbye letter.
Tulane takes our coats and escorts us to the drawing room where the guests have gathered.
Upholstered sofas and wingback chairs have been arranged for polite conversation.
Two servers in black tuxedos glide around the room, silver trays in hand, pausing just long enough for guests to take a drink or an hors d’oeuvre.
Isabel stands at the helm in an elegant black dress with cape sleeves, one hand fingering a string of pearls, the other holding a flute of champagne as she not-so-discreetly surveys the room while mingling with Everett McBride, her escort at the masquerade ball, and Naomi’s parents.
The Kapoors are everything Isabel aspires to be—effortlessly impressive.
It’s no surprise she would gravitate toward them.
Dr. Arjun Kapoor is a cardiologist, and his wife, Priya, an attorney.
Naomi often jokes that her grandparents are eternally disappointed in their daughter’s profession, which is wild.
She’s a successful lawyer. But apparently, medicine was the only acceptable choice.
On the far side of the room, next to a fireplace crowned with garland, Henry and Cosette Everly—a formidable couple in their sixties—converse with Jude.
He paints a flawless picture in his black tie, so devastatingly perfect, he’d fit right in on the cover of Vogue.
It’s so easy to picture him posing on the hood of a Jaguar, his suit coat slung languidly over his shoulder while he broods at the camera.
He catches my eye.
I look quickly away, my heart fluttering.
Mayor Ridley sits on one of the sofas, donning a plaid Christmas blazer, his tried and true phoenix pin fastened to his lapel—a symbol of his loyalty to a town that has recently turned on him.
He looks strained and drawn, like a man who has lost weight too fast. He and his wife chat with the Calloways.
Though they are dressed in their Sunday best, I don’t think Isabel approves.
She keeps glaring at Mr. Calloway’s red sweater, which pulls snuggly across his barrel of a chest. Twig’s argyle socks, too, which are quite visible between his scuffed shoes and too-short pants.
He smiles at me. So do Kate and Naomi. The three of them sit together, snacking on the hors d’oeuvres.
One of the servers approaches with drinks, deftly turning his tray so the flutes of champagne face my father and the tall glasses of sparkling water adorned with sprigs of rosemary face me. I take one with a polite nod.
“I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t,” Mayor Ridley says to Mr. and Mrs. Calloway, his voice carrying. “Half the town will be furious if it’s cancelled. The other half will think I’m endangering lives if it’s not.”
He’s talking about the Hollow Frost Fair, an annual event that takes place between Christmas and New Year’s. A very hot topic in public discourse as of late.
“But surely, whoever is—well, I mean to say…” He frowns, like he isn’t sure what he means to say.
Whoever is kidnapping teenagers? Targeting students?
Disappearing bodies? “There hasn’t been a single development in nearly a fortnight.
We can’t live in limbo forever. So long as we take certain precautions, it should be fine, don’t you think? ”
Mrs. Calloway attempts to reassure him, or at least, empathize with his predicament, while Mr. Calloway spots Dad and waves him over.
I stay where I am, doing my best to ignore Jude’s stare, but the heat of it has warmth spreading beneath my skin.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and try really hard not to fidget, even harder not to look at him when Rafe steps into the room behind me.
He slides his hand along the small of my back and whispers, “Merry Christmas Eve, sweet Selah,” as he passes by.
The heat of Jude’s stare intensifies.
I take a forced sip of sparkling water.
Rafe is dressed in an aesthetic as elegantly gothic as the manor—black tailored trousers, a matching dress shirt, and a burgundy suit coat with black velvet lapels. He greets Cosette with a kiss on the back of her hand.
Tension snaps across Henry’s expression.
If I had to guess, it has something to do with the nasty little lie Rafe told Cosette at the masquerade ball—he ran into Henry in Elkins having lunch with his secretary.
Rafe made it sound like such an innocent, passing comment, when really, it was a calculated part of his agenda.
Stir up drama. Provoke emotion. I can still picture the couple arguing in an alcove afterward.
The only guests still missing are the Bogaards—Ignatius, Camilla, and their pampered son, Sterling, who is fair-skinned and pale-haired with a pointy nose like a rat.
He’s a classmate. Or rather, was a classmate.
He’s one of several who hasn’t been to school as of late.
Jude invited Harper, too. But Harper spends Christmas Eve at her aunt’s celebrating with her very large family.
As the servers make another lap, Naomi and Twig join me just inside the drawing room’s entrance.
“This is an interesting crowd,” Naomi says.
“Tell me about it,” I reply.
Twig licks his thumb. “Food’s good though. You should try the little pancake things with the fish on it.”
Naomi smiles softly. “It’s called blini.”
“Listen,” I whisper. “I need to check on something before the Bogaards arrive and we’re all ushered into the dining hall.” I hand Naomi my drink and give both of their elbows a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Naomi hisses.
I slip away without answering and hurry to the library.
My footsteps echo as I enter the cavernous room and approach the desk located at the far end, set between twin spiral staircases.
There’s a ledger on top of it with a handwritten index inside—the Vandenberg book catalog, organized by genre.
The binding crackles as I pull it open. I flip to classic literature, which includes a list of books that span several pages.
They are alphabetized according to the author’s last name.
The one I’m looking for is near the end.
Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891, Balcony E. Sect IV.
The east balcony, opposite the family archives.
I march to the spiral staircase to my right as an echoing knock sounds on the front door.
The Bogaards have arrived, which means I don’t have much time.
I climb the stairs and flip on a light.
Each shelf has a small brass plaque.
Sect I.
Sect II.
Sect III.
And…
“Section four,” I whisper.
I run my finger along the spines as I scan the titles.
“C’mon,” I mutter. “Where are you?”
My urgency grows. And so, too, does my anticipation.
I feel like I’m standing on the cusp of discovery.
My mother didn’t just come into the library five years ago to sit for an hour.
If she was seeking closure, if she wanted to say goodbye, she would have written a letter.
And if she were going to leave that letter somewhere, wouldn’t she have left it in the book that represented Simon?
I keep searching, and just as I start to worry that the book has been misplaced, I spot it beside Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Standing on tiptoe, I slide it off the shelf, and with a trembling breath, I pull it open, fully expecting something to fall free.
Only nothing does.
I flip through the well-loved edition in case the letter is stuck between the pages. But there’s no paper. No note. Not even a penciled jot in the margins.
My heart sinks.
All my anticipation drains away, leaving a hollow ache where hope had once been.