Chapter 10
HATRED ALL THE WAY DOWN
“Any information about a family painting would be in the personal archives,” Jude says.
Our footsteps echo as I follow him further into the library, toward a life-sized portrait of Amos and Ida Vandenberg hanging over a commanding fireplace.
On either side, spiraling staircases climb to balconies above.
Overhead, angelic frescoes decorate the ceiling.
Not the kind familiar to the Sistine Chapel—all soft pastels and cotton-candy clouds.
These are dark. And moody. An underworld caught in a moment of divine reckoning.
I should be awestruck. This is the Vandenberg library, after all. The crown jewel of the west wing. But all I can think about is that portrait.
Rafe might be a royal jerk. A smarmy creep. But he wasn’t wrong. Ezra Vandenberg painted my face hundreds of years before I was born. This isn’t just a fascinating mystery. It’s a fascinating mystery involving me.
I must solve it.
We reach the staircase farther away.
The steps creak beneath our weight.
The air grows thick with the smell of musty books.
At the top, Jude reaches past me toward the light switch and I catch a subtle note of his cologne— a luxurious scent that has no business smelling so good.
Dusty bulbs flicker to life inside a cobwebbed chandelier.
While the light is minimal, it’s enough to see that this is more than a simple balcony.
It’s a proper research space with a long table and rows of shelves crowded with leather-bound tomes, a collection vast enough to chronicle centuries.
I pull out the nearest one. The cover is stamped with gold lettering.
Vandenberg Correspondence, 18th Century
It contains letter upon letter written in faded cursive on pages made of thick parchment, yellowed and warped by time. Many are dated before the Revolutionary War.
“How did these survive the fire?” I ask.
“The original home sustained damage, but most of the records remained intact.” Jude removes one of the tomes and brings it to the table like a man determined to find logic.
Meanwhile, my mind is spinning with one fantastical explanation after another.
“What do you know about doppelg?ngers?” I ask.
“As a literary device?”
“As an actual phenomenon.”
He doesn’t look up. He just turns a page like the idea isn’t even worth his consideration.
I grab a tome for myself and sit across from him. “They’re almost always associated with bad omens. Evil shadow-selves. Ghostly doubles. I don’t feel particularly evil or ghostly.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Don’t you think the situation warrants it?”
“According to Rafe,” he replies, his jaw tightening over his cousin’s name, “Ezra came back from the war consumed with a woman nobody knew. Which means he probably had an out-of-town mistress. If I had to guess, she was a relative of yours.”
I set my elbow on the table. “How would that explain our identical resemblance? No genes are that strong.”
He ignores my objection and turns another page.
“Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Your ancestor Ezra had an affair with my ancestor, some lady unknown. What are the odds, statistically speaking, that our paths would cross two hundred something years later?”
“I’ll take them over doppelg?ngers.”
Of course he would.
Just like he’ll take chemical imbalances of the brain over the reality of evil.
I narrow my eyes at the top of his head as he pores over the archives in front of him.
For the past few years, Twig and I have made it our mission to prove the supernatural.
We always thought we’d do so by capturing the Woman of the Woods on camera.
But maybe there’s another way. Maybe this is it.
Maybe somewhere in all these towering bookshelves, I’ll find the proof we’ve been looking for.
Something supernatural is going on here.
And Jude Vandenberg will have to eat his skepticism.
With a thrill of anticipation, I open the volume.
I dive in with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning, expecting to unwrap all the gifts I’ve ever wanted.
Only to discover a bunch of socks. The reading turns out to be frustratingly dull and hard to decipher.
So much squinting, only to learn about crop yields and estate repairs and land disputes.
Thank-you notes for dinner parties that sadly, are every bit as generic and mundane as thank you notes today.
“Not as riveting as you expected?”
I look up.
Jude’s watching me with a touch of arrogance. Like he wanted these letters to be boring. I flip a page with unnecessary force. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you so against the idea that something beyond logic could be at play here?”
“Why are you so eager to believe something supernatural is at play here?”
My mind turns to my mother.
Disappearing in fading pixels.
Swallowed up by a black hole of a monster.
“Do you honestly believe in the stuff you talk about on your podcast?” he asks.
My eyes snap to his.
The last time we broached the topic of my podcast, things didn’t go so well.
And the memory of Rafe mentioning it is still fresh.
It felt like a taunt, a more subtle rendition of I’ve been watching you.
He was messing with me. And now here I am, sitting at a table across from Jude, who isn’t backing down.
He’s waiting for me to answer. This wealthy, refined, ridiculously gorgeous boy, his expression taut and slightly condescending.
But there’s something else, too. A trace of hunger in his eyes.
Like some repressed piece of him doesn’t just want to know, but wants to believe, too.
“I believe in the possibility,” I say.
He arches his brow. “You believe in the possibility of cryptids?”
“There’s been plenty of sightings.”
“None of them confirmed.”
“Because once they’re confirmed, they’re no longer cryptids.” I fold my hands on the table. “Not too terribly long ago, people thought the okapi and the Komodo dragon were mythical creatures.”
“Okay, then. What about vampires?”
“Thirteen percent of Americans believe in them.”
“Where did you get that number?”
“Twig.”
He rolls his eyes. “Time travel?”
“Definitely possible.”
“Haunted dolls?”
“I’m not saying I’m a believer, but if you dared me to spend the night inside of Bogaard Antiques all by myself, I’d probably say no.”
He scoffs.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
The question seems to catch him off guard.
He leans back in his seat, his hands resting on either side of the volume in front of him. There’s a thin leather cord tied around his left wrist, which is tan, and much sexier than any wrist ought to be. “I don’t know.”
“Can you concede in the possibility of God existing?”
“Saying no to that would make me sound really arrogant.”
This time, I roll my eyes. “Just answer the question.”
“Fine. I can concede in the possibility.”
“Then can’t you also concede in everything else that would come with God?”
“Vampires and haunted dolls?”
“A supernatural world. One we can’t see. One that transcends logic.”
He taps his finger against the table, as though considering my words. Judging by his expression, I’m pretty sure he thinks they’re ridiculous. “What’s your theory, then?” he finally asks.
“About the painting?”
“About my family.”
Now I’m caught off guard.
We stare at one another for a drawn out moment—like a game of chicken. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. “You want to know what I think happened to your family?”
He inclines his head in a gesture of concession, as if to say, Have at it.
I don’t know where to begin. The Vandenberg cold case is the most fascinating cold case I’ve ever encountered.
A prominent, wealthy family of four vanishes without a trace.
One minute, they’re sitting down for dinner.
The next, they’re gone, food still on their plates.
Jude wants to hear my theory, but I don’t have a theory.
Just a collection of intriguing facts. I point some of them out, starting with John, the shady patriarch.
“He was known around town for his volatile personality. According to inside sources, he was pretty controlling, especially when it came to his children. And there were some rumors of embezzlement and blackmail.”
Jude’s eyes narrow, as though contemplating this new-to-him information. “Enough to get his family killed?”
“There was never any physical proof that anyone was killed. No blood. No bodies. No smoking gun. The only lead police had to follow came from John’s brother, Luke.”
“My grandfather,” Jude mutters. “What was the lead?”
“He told authorities to look into a cousin named Thomas, Rueben, or Frank.” I watch him process the accusation, taking in the slow furrow of his brow. “Do you know them?”
He shakes his head, but then he says, “Thomas is Rafe’s dad.”
The back of my neck prickles.
“I’ve never met him, but after my grandfather died, Rafe offered condolences on his father’s behalf. He said his name was Thomas.”
“Do you know anything about Reuben or Frank?”
He shakes his head again.
I gaze at the archives—there are so many—and I wonder what secrets they hold, what stories they tell. “It’s a strange tip, isn’t it?”
“Accusing a cousin?”
“The wording.” I look at Jude. “He said to look into a cousin, but then he gave three names.”
“You don’t think it was a typo?”
“Probably.” And yet, the dissonance has always nagged at me. Like maybe there’s something there and we just haven’t put it together yet.
“Did anything come of it?” Jude asks.
“Not that I know of. There was nothing more about it in the investigation, anyway. At least not in the parts Twig and I had access to. There was some suspicious stuff about the teenage daughter though.”
“Suspicious how?”
“She got into a fair amount of trouble. Once, she was arrested for indecent exposure.” My face flushes, which is dumb. It’s not like I was the one caught swimming naked in haunted waters. “She went skinny dipping in the quarry.”