Chapter Thirty-Two
THIRTY-TWO
Izzy moved back into my room last night, which was good because I didn’t really want to be alone again, but it also meant that I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted to do without starting another argument.
Instead, I set my alarm stupidly early, knowing full well Izzy would sleep through it, and now I’m curled up on the sofa with a massive mug of coffee and the Two of Swords.
I managed to grab my iPad and Professor Williams’s notes as I snuck out of the room, and I have the latter spread out in front of me.
I sip the too-strong coffee, hoping it wakes me up.
It’s just shy of six a.m. so it’s already bright out, fingers of sunlight reaching through the shutters, but Izzy’s sleep schedule should be reliable enough for me to have an hour on my own.
If I don’t, she’s going to fall out with me all over again.
I know I promised to drop the whole copycat killer thing, but seeing the blindfold on the card is too much of a coincidence—the tarot must fit in somewhere.
I turn the Two of Swords over in my hands as my brain starts to wake up.
One thing I’ve had very little insight into is why the artist might have killed The Four.
If he was BBK, he could have been a run-of-the-mill psychopath, but I think of the rituals I came across that involved blood and hair.
What if that wasn’t just the product of a sick mind, but because he was trying to do a spell, like Izzy insists?
Tarot cards were linked with the occult back then—could he have been using them to choose the way he killed those women?
I pick up Professor Williams’s handwritten notes, take a sip of coffee and scan a page. The penciled notes are still mainly indecipherable, so I flip it over and focus on the other side.
This side has drawings on it.
Well, “drawings” is generous. “Rough sketches” is a more accurate description of these rectangles with little squiggles in them. I scan the chicken-scratch handwriting around them and gasp as a word finally jumps out, mainly because I’ve been looking for it. “Tarot.”
I knew it.
I sit up and scrabble through the pictures I saved from my ill-conceived murder wall.
They’re torn at the corners, and I have to smooth them out, but I find the first of The Four, the woman I now think of as Lorenna, and place her on the coffee table next to the Two of Swords.
I compare them, wanting there to be more in common, but there’s nothing apart from the blindfold.
I sit back with a deep sigh and sip my coffee, making a face when I realize it’s starting to get cold. I drain my mug and peel the overly ripened banana that counts as breakfast.
The Two of Swords taunts me from the coffee table, and I wonder if it is all some weird coincidence as I turn the TV on in case Izzy walks in on me. I eat the banana in three bites, realizing how hungry I am, and then pick up the notes again.
If it’s all a coincidence, then why did the professor make these notes?
I put my banana peel in the empty mug and grab the entire deck of cards, copying what Izzy did the other night by getting down on all fours and spreading them out on the floor at random, looking for any more that might match Lorenna in a macabre game of concentration.
My eyes blur as they take in one card after the other, and I realize there are too many figures, too many swords and cups, their bright primary colors all muddling together.
I gather them up and rock back on my heels, forcing myself to think of the easiest way to do this.
I reach over to the coffee table and grab the pile of salvaged printouts, once again placing the portraits in the order they hang in the gallery.
Then I grab the cards and cross my legs, placing one at a time next to the first portrait.
I discard pages and queens, wands and pentacles, putting them to one side until I come across one that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I sit up from my hunched position as I hold it in front of me.
It’s another card from the sword suit, that much is immediately obvious.
It shows eight long blades that have been stabbed into the earth surrounding a feminine figure, and I feel a rising sense of excitement as I glance between it and the portrait, noting their similarities.
The character on the Eight of Swords appears distressed and they are also wearing a blindfold, but there’s something else, something that steals my breath.
The figure has binding over her shoulders, just like the portrait of Lorenna hints at.
Just like the draping ends of Helen’s makeshift blindfold.
I check the time. It’s six-thirty now, so Izzy should be asleep for a little bit longer, especially as I remembered to pull down the blackout blinds in my room.
I can feel the caffeine working its way into my bloodstream, my brain now a machine weaving threads together, even though I’m not sure what the finished product will look like yet.
I let it work in the background and gather up the tarot cards, leaving the Eight of Swords below the first portrait and focusing on the second painting, the woman with flowers in her hair. Frances.
Or Jen.
I grab my iPad from the sofa and open Google.
It doesn’t take me long to find the photos of her.
I’m glad that the ones I come across at least have her face and the obvious wound at her throat blurred out in some disingenuous show of respect, but my meager breakfast threatens to make a reappearance as I scroll through the social media thread.
It’s full of screen grabs from various websites, and I ignore the comments after reading one that’s ghoulish enough to turn my stomach.
I delete the browser tab and erase the search history for good measure, partly so Izzy doesn’t stumble on it, but also so I don’t come across it again.
Not that it matters, because just like Helen’s body, the image of Jen’s final moment is something that will remain with me for a long time.
I pick up the cards again and take a deep breath as I look at the second portrait.
The flowers here are small and fluffy, tiny red cotton balls on dainty branches speared into the woman’s hair.
Looking at the photos of Jen, I did think there was something off about the flowers in her hair, the color too bright.
Artificial, maybe? They didn’t look wilted or dried.
Could they be made from paper?
It was also clear from the photos that Jen’s body was posed, tied to the park bench she was found on.
Her body remained upright, but the angle of her neck and the large, dark stain on the wooden seat beneath her made it clear she was dead.
Jen’s hair was plaited, but again, there was something off about it, and I know she was wearing it down at the party.
I wonder if someone else did it. A crown of flowers rested on her head, and more were dotted through her long hair, which snaked down across her body, the end tied to a rope.
This was also covered in flowers and wrapped round her waist, binding her arms to her sides.
I scour the tarot deck again, focusing on anything depicting flowers or plants, pushing aside the image of Jen’s blood-soaked figure.
I add a couple to the maybe pile, but they don’t seem quite right—the Empress wears a dress decorated with flowers and the Queen of Wands holds a sunflower, but they don’t look like Jen’s body did—so I keep going.
Until I reach a card emblazoned with the word “Strength.”
It’s not quite right, because the female figure has short blond hair and is tending to a lion, but there are enough similarities for me to stop and really study it.
The flowers on this are red too, on her head and wrapping around her waist. The figure on the card isn’t bound, but that could be a practical element—Jen could have been bound to subdue her or to keep her upright.
Helen wasn’t actually bound, but the addition of the belt as an afterthought, the way the ends were arranged to drape around her shoulders, gave the suggestion of it, and I realize that this links them even further.
It’s one of the killer’s signatures.
I study the first two portraits and the tarot cards below them, thinking of one of Dad’s many gallery speeches. It’s the artist’s interpretation, Fliss. There are only so many ideas in the world, but there are a million different ways for people to interpret them.
I look back at Professor Williams’s notes and realize that’s what he’s saying too.
The artist who painted The Four created his own interpretation of a tarot deck, posing women to fit his warped aesthetic.
Now someone else is doing the same thing, creating their own twisted modern versions of his art, using the same source material.
I grab my notebook and flip back to the table of information I’ve gathered. I pause to look at the progress I’ve made with Lorenna, hoping I get the chance to do the same with the other women, then add a new row at the bottom and quickly fill in the first two columns.
Portrait one
Name: Lorenna Randolph
Date: 3rd July 1911
Circumstances: Found in abandoned building. Homicide by exsanguination.
Tarot card: Eight of Swords
Portrait two
Name: Frances Hartley
Date: 10th July 1911
Circumstances:
Tarot card: Strength
Portrait three
Name: Nicole French
Date: 14th July 1911
Circumstances:
Tarot card:
Portrait four
Name: Grace Kaufman
Date: 17th July 1911
Circumstances:
Tarot card:
I look at the two final portraits, thinking maybe I can figure out which tarot cards they depict, when something dawns on me.
If there is a copycat killer in Blackwood, he’s got two more victims lined up.