Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ugh, that thing is still on display?”
Izzy picks up her pace as we pass the unknown artist’s self-portrait.
I flinch unintentionally—I forgot how terrifying it is.
I’m grabbed by a sudden urge to take a photo of it, though, so I go in close and snap one on my phone.
The subject’s hollow eyes glow from the screen, filling me with revulsion.
“Erm, Fliss, what are you doing?”
I look up from the screen to see Izzy and Noah staring at me in horror.
“It’s for my dad,” I say, thinking fast and holding up the phone in a shrug. “He asked me to send him a picture of it in the gallery. He wants to show someone they met in the Maldives.”
“God, just promise me you won’t post it anywhere. The last thing we need is this curse going viral.”
“You really believe that, don’t you,” Noah says to Izzy. It’s not a question; instead, his voice is flat. Emotionless.
“Don’t you? Look what’s happened since Fliss found that thing.” Izzy gives an exaggerated shiver, but then her expression turns apologetic as she realizes it’s poor taste to insinuate that Jen’s death is part of the curse.
We walk through the rest of the gallery in silence and finally emerge into the sunshine on the quad. I fold myself into a sitting position on the grass and let my mind wander as Izzy shows Noah a silly video on her phone, trying hard to cheer him up.
I leave them to it and open the web browser on my own phone, flicking to a tab from the gallery that shows The Four.
Something started to bubble inside me when I saw the connection in the gallery, and it’s not quite excitement, because that would be weird and wrong, but I know I’m onto something, and even the police might not have realized it yet.
There are four paintings of women here, who, if we go by my recent research, were probably murdered by BBK in 1911.
Now two of those murders have potentially been re-created by someone in Blackwood.
But why? Did the self-portrait resurfacing trigger them?
Izzy would say it’s because the painting is cursed, but I just can’t bring myself to believe that.
What I do believe is that if I’m right, Blackwood has a big problem.
“Oh, Fliss!” I start as Noah jumps up, and I realize a second too late that the seat of my jeans is soaked through.
I shuffle onto my knees and see my now-empty coffee cup next to me on the grass.
“I’m sorry, I was moving my bag and the whole thing upended…
The clasp on it doesn’t always catch properly…
” He trails off and bites his lower lip.
Izzy hands me a wad of tissue and I twist around to study the brown coffee stain spreading across my bum.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, tugging off my oversized shirt and wrapping it round my waist as Noah scrambles around the grass for his belongings.
The air is cool on my bare arms and I curse myself for throwing on the most revealing vest top I own this morning.
I try to discreetly raise the neckline. “There, all good. Do you need a hand?”
“Don’t worry, I’m done.” Noah scoops up an old-school film canister and a reporter’s notebook and shoves them into the satchel.
“I really do need a new bag before school starts next month. This one is faulty.” He picks up the satchel and stands.
“Actually, I might go and do that today. Better now than never, right?”
“Right,” I agree, ignoring Izzy’s head swiveling between the two of us like she’s at Wimbledon.
Noah hesitates before looking back down at me. I’m still crouching like some kind of fool. “Can I text you later? I did mean to this morning, but then, well…you know.”
“It’s okay. I mean, yeah, of course you can text me.” I flush. Do I uncrouch? Or will that make me look worse? I stay put, trying to think of a reply that will distract him from my awkward position. “Have fun, erm, bag shopping.”
Jesus, Fliss.
“Thanks. Speak to you later, then.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bye, Iz.”
“See ya.” She waves and waits approximately one eighth of a second before pushing my shoulder so I lose my balance and roll onto the ground.
“Hey!” I laugh, pushing myself up, my hand pressing on something sharp in the long grass. “Ow.” I pull it back and study the skin on my palm, but there’s nothing there. “God, that was embarrassing.” I sigh.
“You were embarrassing,” Izzy accuses, though her tone is gentle. “You were on another planet today. Want to share?”
“Not yet.” I feel around in the grass for whatever poked my hand, and my fingers close around something small but solid. “I don’t think Noah picked up all of his stuff,” I say, pulling it free. It’s a thin gold chain with a broken clasp. It glints in the sun as I lay it in the palm of my hand.
“Unless he started wearing delicate gold jewelry recently, that’s not his,” Izzy says, taking it from me and tilting it so the light reflects off it. “Someone must have lost it here.”
“It’s not dirty, though,” I counter, and Izzy narrows her eyes in a silent question. “If it was here for long, it would be covered in soil, wouldn’t it? Especially if people have walked over this spot.”
“You terrify me,” Izzy sighs, shaking her head. “You’re always thinking two steps ahead. Remind me never to play chess with you.”
“You know I can’t play chess.” I stand up and hold my hand out for the chain.
“I’ll hand it in at the gallery desk and they can post about it or something.
The owner might be looking for it. Then I really need to go home and change.
I’m a mess.” I am soaked, so I’m not lying, but going home is less about the coffee stain and more about updating my murder board before I take it and my theory to the police.
“Okay, let’s go.” Izzy hands the necklace over and stands up, brushing herself off. I look at it again, realizing that the patterned link in the center is actually looping script. “Hey, I think this is one of those nameplate necklaces.”
“It is?”
Izzy’s intake of breath tells me that she deciphers the letters at the same time as I do. We both stare at the necklace in my hand, the name now so obvious I don’t know how we didn’t see it right away.
Jennifer