Chapter 12
WHAT MAGGIE DOESN’T KNOW
Idon’t receive an early morning wake up call from Jude on Sunday. Just Dad, poking his head inside my bedroom a little after eight to make sure I’m awake for church.
For the past seven years, we’ve gone to St. Oswald’s nine o’clock service.
Twig’s family goes, too, and while he finds it a touch boring, more of an obligation than a spiritual practice, I’ve always enjoyed church.
Especially St. Oswald’s, with its natural lighting, wood-beamed ceilings, and free-standing panels of stained glass.
I love the tradition, the liturgy, the stories.
It’s a place where the uncanny permeates everything.
From that giant wooden cross on the altar, to the eucharist placed in our hands, and the Apostles’ Creed we recite afterward.
The Holy Trinity. Hypostatic Union. The very nature of God—omnipresent and omniscient?
I love that Pastor Tim doesn’t scramble about, trying to make sense of these grand mysteries.
He embraces them. Calls them sacred, even.
Then spends the rest of the hour encouraging us to love and serve.
Today, however, I can’t quite settle into it. I keep thinking about Jude and the look on his face when I told him Rafe tried kissing me in the graveyard. If ever I could take back my words, those would be the ones.
When the service ends, Twig and I run errands for Mrs. Calloway, who’s been the Volunteer & Logistic Coordinator on the Phoenix Parade committee ever since I moved here seven years ago.
Over the course of those seven years, Twig and I have become her unofficial errand-runners.
We drop off flyers at local businesses for sponsorships and donations.
We post signs soliciting volunteers. We take t-shirt inventory for float crews and parade day helpers.
And when we’re done, we explore more of the Vandenberg grounds.
Dad lets us take his Bronco around the eastern perimeter, where twisted trees cast long shadows over the dirt road.
In the northeast corner, we discover a motor house—a more recent addition, by the looks of it, with steel garage doors and clerestory windows that let in the light but protect privacy.
John Vandenberg was a known auto enthusiast, so I can only imagine what kind of collection might be hidden inside.
We don’t run into Jude or Rafe, but we do have an epic encounter with some turkeys.
A rustle of leaves stops us both in our tracks.
We tilt our heads toward the sound like a satellite dish honing in.
Then comes a cluster of strange, guttural noises.
Twig silently pulls out his phone and starts recording.
We creep forward, thrumming with excitement, only for a flock of wild turkeys to explode into flight, flapping and screeching like feathered banshees.
After recovering from our near heart attacks, we fall into hysterical laughter and play the video on repeat. We’d been so convinced we were on the cusp of paranormal discovery, Twig had been ready to fetch our proton pack.
For the next ten minutes, we take turns concocting fake episode titles for the podcast.
Paranormal Poultry.
Cryptids with Tail Feathers.
Fowl Play in the Fog.
Sasquawk: The Mystery Screech of Foggy Hollow.
Eventually, Twig ditches me for his robotics team.
I spend the rest of the evening trying really hard not to think about Jude, but failing miserably.
What is he doing inside that giant manor?
Poring over more tomes, researching by himself?
And if so, has he found any more references to the portrait?
We parted ways mid-scene, loose ends galore twisting in the wind. I’m eager to tie some of them down.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’ve worked myself into a tizzy of curiosity. I hurry into school ready to bombard him with questions, only to discover he’s playing hooky. He’s not in the hallways. He’s not in the lunchroom. And he’s not in eighth period history class, either.
That night, I curl up in my window seat and pretend to do homework. But really, I gaze out my window toward his, illuminated against the dark. Every so often, there’s the vague impression of movement, but never his outline.
Is the portrait still in his bedroom?
Has he been studying it, and by proxy, studying me?
The thought is like a space heater in my belly.
When he’s a no-show on Tuesday, disappointment curdles into irritation.
“What if I imagined it?” I say to Twig as we move through the lunch line. “What if everything I told you in Maggie’s basement was one giant fever dream?”
Twig selects a Jello, rejecting the idea with the shake of his head.
“You weren’t there, though, Twig. I have no witnesses. For all we know, I could be going mad like Jack Torrance from The Shining.”
“Or Teddy Daniels from Shutter Island.”
I set a small bag of baby carrots on my tray. “Oh my gosh. I’m Teddy Daniels. And Jude is my Rachel Solando.”
Twig chuckles.
“No, seriously. What if I’m not even here? What if I moved to Illinois with my dad, which broke my brain, and now I’ve conjured this elaborate fantasy where I’m not only living on the Vandenberg Estate, I’m the focal point of the family’s obsession.”
“It’s a good fantasy,” Twig says.
I heave a sigh, feeling irrationally abandoned.
This is an alluring mystery. An intoxicating riddle. I’m itching to dive in headfirst and hunt for answers. Meanwhile, Jude has gone AWOL.
“I just don’t get how he’s so … uninterested.” I swipe my lunch card, then come to such an abrupt stop, Twig runs into me from behind.
It’s him.
Jude.
He’s here, in the cafeteria, sitting in the same place he sat the first day of school. He’s attracting the same amount of attention, too, looking as tortured and standoffish as ever.
Maybe even more so.
I motion for Twig to follow, and before I can second guess what I’m doing, I’m already halfway there. He doesn’t notice my approach. He’s too caught up in Crime and Punishment, staring at the pages like a man reading his own fate.
“Hey,” I say, setting my tray on the table.
He looks up, and there’s something on his face that wasn’t there before. A dark purple bloom on the ridge of his jaw like a storm cloud under his skin.
I drop into a seat. “What happened?”
A hint of color rises along his cheekbones, faint but undeniable. “It’s nothing.”
“That isn’t nothing. It looks like you got into a fight.”
“I didn’t,” he says tersely.
But my imagination has run wild. I’m already picturing him and Rafe coming to physical blows. Over me. I quickly dismiss the thought. It reeks of narcissism. I’ve gone and put myself in the center of Jude’s life, and there’s nothing to suggest I’m even on the periphery.
He dog-ears his page—which would make Maggie holler—and glances up at Twig.
I give my friend a look like sit down already.
Twig lowers himself into the seat on my left.
I fish my phone from the pocket of my slouchy cardigan and pull up the picture I took of Maggie’s book. “Look what I found.”
Jude tosses my screen an annoyed glance, quickly followed by a giant double take.
He leans closer, his attention flicking to Twig before returning to me, and I’m caught off guard by his nearness.
Maybe not as close as he was on the balcony of his library, but close enough to make out each one of his dark eyelashes.
“Where’s it from?” he asks, separating himself a little.
“Evermore Books. I drew the symbol and showed it to my boss, Maggie Henshaw, and she showed me this book. It was donated from your estate, by Denis Tulane.”
Jude casts another glance in Twig’s direction.
“I told him about the portrait,” I say. “And everything we found when we were researching in your library.”
His countenance goes very, very dark.
He doesn’t like that I’ve told Twig.
But what’s a girl to do? Of course I was going to tell my best friend.
“You don’t have to worry. It’s not like we’re going to do a podcast episode about it.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
Jude drags his hand along his bruised jawline. “I think we should drop this.”
“What?” I practically come out of my chair, garnering the attention of several people sitting at the table next to ours. I lower my voice. “Why—because I told Twig?”
“Because we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“The identity of Ezra’s obsession.”
“She’s his mistress.”
“You can’t honestly still think that.”
“Why not?”
“If she was simply his mistress, why is there this mysterious symbol? What’s it doing on the locket and that sketch?”
“Maybe they had an illegitimate kid together, Molly is their daughter, and the symbol is your family crest.”
“I don’t have a family crest.”
“That you know of.”
I hold up my phone with the picture of the tome. “And this? What’s the symbol doing on this?”
“What’s inside?”
“We don’t know.”
“You can’t tell from the picture,” Twig says, “but it’s locked.”
Jude’s eyes spark with interest.
I grab onto it for all I’m worth. “Pretty strange, don’t you think?”
But he only shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have shown you the portrait.”
“Of course you should have. It’s a painting of me.”
“Someone who looks like you,” he says in a tone tight with aggravation. “Rafe is up to something, and whatever it is, he’s trying to pull you into the middle of it.”
My attention shifts to his bruise. “Is that why you want to drop this, because of Rafe?”
“You should stay away from him.”
“I don’t plan to go anywhere near him. I just want to pull on the string.”
Jude quirks his eyebrow.
“You know that scene from The Goonies? Where Mikey finds a string and he starts to pull it up?”
“I’ve never seen The Goonies,” Jude says.
“Doesn’t it lead to a booby trap?” Twig asks.
I ignore the interjections. “Right now, we’ve picked up a string. I don’t know where it leads. I only know that I have to follow it to the end. Don’t you want to follow it with me?”
Jude’s knee begins bouncing under the table.
I can tell he wants to say yes.
I set my elbow next to my tray. “You should come to Evermore after school. I’ll be there until seven. At least let me show you the book.”
The battle rages.
I’m desperate for curiosity to win.
“I can’t after school,” he finally says. “I have … obligations.”
Something tells me if I were to wait for some elaboration on these cryptic obligations, I would be waiting in vain. “When are these obligations wrapping up?”
“When your shift ends.”
“Then why don’t I bring the book to you?”
Twig almost spits out his Powerade. He manages to get the drink down, then pats his chest. “Sorry,” he says, coughing some more. “Wrong pipe.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and looks at me like he has opinions.
“Just say it,” I tell him.
“Maggie isn’t going to let that book out of her shop.”
“What Maggie doesn’t know won’t kill her.”
Twig frowns.
Honestly, I’m not a fan of the idea either, but it isn’t like I’m going to steal the thing. I’ll return it first thing tomorrow. “She won’t even know it’s gone, Twig. I promise.” I turn away from his disapproval. “Meet you at seven fifteen?”
“Sure,” Jude says.
We spend the rest of lunch period in silence.
Twig, nervous.
Jude, brooding.
Me?
Wondering how the heck I’m going to get such a giant book out from under Maggie Henshaw’s nose.