Chapter 25
A HIDDEN STASH
My mouth splits wide with a yawn as I plop my bag on top of my writing desk.
I’ve worked the evening shift at Evermore every day this week.
A favor to Maggie, who was struck by the same hellish bug that visited me a month ago.
Walt took care of her while I took care of Evermore, and finally after school today, she returned with a vengeance and told me to take the weekend off.
I didn’t protest.
The week has wrung me dry.
Funny how I can go a whole month of school without any homework at all, then bam!
Tests, papers, projects, oh my. On Tuesday, I had a quiz in Probability he just didn’t sleep well.
He avoided eye contact when he said it, a pattern that would continue for the remainder of the week.
A pattern that would have led me to confront Rafe if he were here.
Was he following through with his threat at the quarry? Was he tormenting Jude in secret?
Jude has certainly looked tormented.
But of course, this could have nothing to do with Rafe, because Rafe is gone.
I give my head a rattle and flex my fingers over the keyboard of my Chromebook. “Focus, Selah. Focus.”
Themes of The Scarlet Letter.
Guilt. Hypocrisy.
I’m overcome by another yawn. I cover it with my fist and set my elbow on the desk.
Isolation. The nature of evil.
I rest my chin in my hand, eyelids drooping.
Sin … and judgement.
The sound of laughter echoes down the hallway. I chase after it, the tail end of a night gown whipping around the corner and out of sight.
“Seeeelaaaah.”
The whisper floats through the dim light of the corridor. The voice is achingly familiar.
I lift my foot to take a step when the voice speaks in my ear, “Come find me.”
My chin slides off my hand.
My head jerks up.
My eyes fly open.
The cursor blinks on the screen.
And light flashes in the periphery of my vision.
It comes from the manor.
A window is illuminated on the second floor.
Only nobody’s home.
At least, nobody’s supposed to be home.
I lean closer, trying to place its location when a figure steps into the frame. Slowly, the shadow turns and stares.
I duck, heart pounding in my ears.
When I’m brave enough to look again, the window is dark. Like I imagined the whole thing.
The next morning, I knock on Jude’s front door.
Tulane answers. He insists Master Jude is still sleeping, but halfway through the excuse, Master Jude descends one of the staircases.
To Tulane’s credit, Jude is still dressed in sleep wear—gray henley, flannel pajama pants, a matching robe, and old money slippers.
Bowing, Tulane excuses himself, leaving us alone in the giant foyer. Me, just outside the doors. Jude, still on the stairs.
“Is Rafe back?” I ask.
He runs his hand over the back of his hair, which is tousled from sleep. “Not that I know of.”
“You went to the fundraiser last night?”
“Yes,” he says, drawing out the word, the tail of it lilting upward so it sounds more like a question than a statement.
“And Isabel?”
“She’s the one who insisted on dragging me along.” Jude tilts his head. The shadows beneath his eyes are worse than they’ve been all week. “Why are you asking?”
“Someone was here while you were gone. A light came on in one of the windows, and it wasn’t Tulane. I saw him leaving in his car when I was pulling in.”
Jude’s eyes narrow.
“Were there workers here? A cleaning crew, maybe?”
“No,” he says.
“Are you sure?” They’d had their fair share as of late. A revolving door of cleaners and repairmen, getting the manor in tiptop shape for the ball. The one I’m supposed to attend with Jude, who—despite what he said—very likely regrets inviting me.
I’m tired of feeling angsty about it.
With a roll of my eyes, I invite myself in. I sweep past him, up the stairs, through the upper hall, into the west wing corridor, which is lined with portraits. Vandenbergs of the past. I don’t stop until I’m standing in the doorway of a large, empty bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Jude asks, stopping beside me.
I creep inside, floorboards creaking underfoot, and come to a stop in the same spot the shadowed figure stood. I can see my bedroom window perfectly. With my light on, a person standing here would very much be able to see me sitting there, in the window seat.
I turn to Jude. “Someone was in here last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
He rubs his jaw, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing, it’s just … this was Simon’s bedroom.”
Goosebumps crawl across my skin.
Simon’s bedroom.
The moment feels as poignant as the time I first stood in the dining hall. I’m Oda Mae Brown all over again, summoning Simon’s ghost. I take a step and the floor creaks differently. Enough to make me stop, back up, and step again. The sound is decidedly altered.
Crouching down, I give the floorboard a rap with my knuckles. It sounds solid. I move to the next. It sounds solid, too. Then another, the one closest to my foot, and it doesn’t sound solid at all. It sounds hollow. I knock again to make sure, and yes, it’s definitely hollow.
With the tip of my fingers, I reach between the crack and pry the floorboard up. It lifts easily, like it’s been waiting all this time, begging to be opened.
And underneath …
“Great Scott,” I whisper, reaching inside the long, narrow compartment as Jude joins me.
We’ve uncovered a hidden stash.
The first item is a large Bible, one that looks too old to belong to Simon Vandenberg.
I set it aside and pull out two items underneath—a pack of cigarettes in a black and red box that smell of clove and a half-empty bottle of Hennessy.
“Looks like Lily wasn’t the only one with a rebellious streak. ”
“A sixteen-year-old who drank cognac and smoked Djarums?” Jude quirks an eyebrow. “He was definitely going for a certain aesthetic.”
I remove a stack of CDs. Smashing Pumpkins. Nine Inch Nails. Radiohead! I flip through them with increasing enthusiasm.
“Don’t you have a shirt like that?” Jude asks, pointing to the Smashing Pumpkins CD.
“Siamese Dream,” I reply. “It’s only the most powerful listening experience of all time.”
It also happens to be my mother’s favorite. These bands are from her era. Which is probably why I got into them, too.
My attention returns to the hiding spot, where two more items are hidden, and I experience a jolt of excitement. Because one is a disposable camera. With undeveloped film. Pictures Simon would have taken.
The question is, why would he hide them?
The cigarettes and the liquor bottle make sense. The CDs, too, if his parents were against alternative rock. But a camera? What would compel him to hide a camera? There must be something about the pictures he didn’t want anyone to see. And suddenly, my thoughts are racing. My blood, humming.
“We could get this developed,” I say.
It could be evidence.
Newly uncovered evidence.
Jude reaches inside the narrow compartment and removes the last item—a small, hardcover book made of burgundy leather with scuffed corners, held shut by a brass clasp.
He opens it. Someone wrote with black ink on the inside cover in handwriting so compact it’s intense. There’s a quote and postscript.
“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end,” I read. “Sylvia Plath.”
And underneath:
Property of Simon Vandenberg.
We just found his private journal.