Chapter 38
A NOT SO EMPTY THREAT
The marching band rehearses in bursts of music. Snare drums and tenors rattle out a commanding tempo as the fog lifts and golden sunlight spills over the meandering line of floats in the high school parking lot. Silver pompoms sparkle as cheerleaders run through a routine.
I lace up my boots, Mercy Bogaard once again, my insides a tangle of emotion as more parade participants arrive. Sports teams. Civic groups. Local performers. My personal favorite? A mime troupe. But not even their charming absurdity distracts me this morning.
My attention keeps returning to the spot where the Cadillac should be—long and black with sweeping fenders. More relic than vehicle, unearthed from the estate’s motor house.
Behind the empty space, Sterling Bogaard sits atop the backseat of a red thunderbird convertible, joined by his great grandmother, Opal, an old woman who looks to be pushing a hundred.
A 1948 Chrysler Town and Country is parked behind them, to be driven by Carl, who will be escorting Marvin Doorn, the out-of-town professor.
The Vandenbergs are MIA.
I called Jude twice last night. The first rang and rang. The second went straight to voicemail, making me want to scream. Or maybe cry. I sent him a cryptic text instead, thinking curiosity might tempt him into conversation.
Just discovered something big. Call me.
It went as unanswered as every other text I have sent him this week. Apparently, the only way I’m going to be able to tell him about last night’s discovery will be face-to-face.
Wheels clatter over uneven concrete as I pocket my phone and rub my hands to ward off the chill.
Mrs. Calloway approaches, pulling a red Radio Flyer filled with bottled waters, granola bars, and—because she’s Mrs. Calloway—a selection of individually wrapped homemade goodies.
She passes the wagon to me with profound gratitude, like I’m saving lives instead of handing out provisions.
“I’m happy to help,” I say with a smile.
She gives my elbow an appreciative squeeze.
The walkie-talkie clipped to the pocket of her coat squawks.
She excuses herself with a harried expression and joins the inspector in front of the Phoenix Float—a giant, mythical bird constructed from metal wire and papier-maché, complete with wings that flap as it rises from the smoke.
It’s the parade’s grand finale. Every year, it’s preceded by the marching band and joined by the color guard, who dress in fiery colors and wave red and orange flags.
Right now, though, neither the wings nor the fog machine are working. Not ideal for a grand finale. Mr. Calloway and Twig are on the job, though, which means Mrs. Calloway has no reason to fret. They’ll figure out what’s wrong and get things up and running in no time.
I pull the wagon to the Dutch float, decked out with tulips, a windmill, wooden shoes, and a sign that reads, “In search of new beginnings.” A tribute to our town’s heritage. Several people help themselves to drinks and snacks.
The Founder’s float is next, featuring Andreas Vandenberg, Tobias Bogaard, and Amadeaus Doorn—played by three overly serious men from the Preservation Society.
Then comes the float I’ll be joining, a burning building facade with faux flames made of red and orange cellophane blown upward by a pair of electric fans.
Torch bearers will march in front and behind.
The Aftermath float follows, an ash heap mostly, ridden by kids from junior theater.
They descend on Mrs. Calloway’s wagon like tiny chimney sweeps, snatching up most of the homemade goodies when at last the Cadillac arrives.
My heart soars.
I quickly look away, needing a second to collect myself. Across the lot, Kate breaks away from the cheerleading squad to join her mother. They give a cheer as the fog machine sputters to life. Twig hops off the trailer and crawls underneath to work on the motor for the wing mechanism.
I take a steadying breath and peek again at the Cadillac.
Only then do I notice.
Jude isn’t driving. Instead, Rafe sits behind the wheel. Isabel rides shotgun. I crane my neck, searching for Jude in the back seat.
But he isn’t there.
My stomach plummets as Rafe eases the Cadillac into place. He steps out looking like he belongs in one of those black and white perfume ads. He’s wearing dark trousers, a white button down shirt open at the collar, a black leather jacket, and dark sunglasses.
He circles around the chrome grille, opens the door, and offers Isabel his hand.
She takes it like she’s royalty—sliding out in a wide-brimmed hat and a cream-colored coat dress with oversized lapels and gold buttons.
It’s unnerving, watching them smile at one another when not so long ago, Rafe made her cry out in pain.
Isabel glides toward Mayor Ridley’s wife and greets her with kisses on both cheeks. Rafe lingers behind. He leans against the Cadillac, one ankle crossed over the other, a picture of careless charm. Then he lowers his sunglasses just enough to meet my gaze.
He flashes a wicked grin.
Clenching my jaw, I grab the wagon handle and wheel it toward him.
“Selah Whitlock,” he says, his grin widening. “Looking dutiful as ever.”
“Where’s Jude?” I ask.
“He didn’t tell you?”
My grip on the wagon handle tightens.
Rafe clicks his tongue. “How rude of him. We’ll have to have a little chat about being more considerate.”
“Where is he, Rafe?”
“He stayed behind. Isabel was disappointed, of course, but what can she do? He’s adamantly uninterested. In anything, really. Which has become a problem, hasn’t it?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “What’s going on between the two of you, Selah? Trouble in paradise?”
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I fold my arms and lift my chin. “I know what you’re up to.”
He arches a brow. “Do tell.”
“You’re looking for the onyx and the pearl.”
This earns a pause.
“The question is why,” I continue. “Do they have powers?”
“What would ever make you believe something so dramatic?” he asks.
Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps the so-called children’s fable that no longer feels like a children’s fable. But I bite my tongue.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rafe says. “I’ll divulge what I’m up to if you tell me where you’ve put the portrait. I’ve asked Jude, but he keeps pleading the fifth.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Sentimental reasons.”
“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I don’t know where it is.”
“You’re a horrible liar, Selah.”
I lift my shoulder in what I hope is an unbothered shrug.
“You should really tell the truth.” He examines his nails. “Lying has consequences, you know. If you keep it up, something horrible might just happen to Jude.”
“You know, Rafe, the last time you made a threat like that, you disappeared for ten days. Any chance we could be so lucky a second time?”
His smile fades, but before he can reply, Lainey Sikes makes an appearance. She flings her arms around his neck with a giddy squeal. “Rafe! Oh my gosh, you look amazing.” She leans back and pouts her lips. “You told me last night you weren’t coming.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. I know how much you love surprises.”
Lainey hugs him again, pressing her cheek to his.
Desperate.
Clingy.
Just watching makes my skin itch with claustrophobia.
Rafe whispers in her ear.
She stiffens slightly.
He cups her chin and brushes his lips against hers. “Pretty please? For me?”
It makes me want to vomit.
But apparently, it works on Lainey. Whatever Rafe requested, the public display of affection does the trick. She squares her shoulders and marches away.
I watch her go, suspicion coiling in my gut. “What are you doing with Lainey?” I ask, turning to face him.
Rafe smiles.
“You don’t even like her.”
“Now why would you go and say something like that? I’ve become a big fan of Lainey’s. She’s very useful.”
I open my mouth, ready with a retort, but his phone dings.
He lifts a finger as if to say—hold that thought—and checks the message. He taps out a slow reply, then slides his phone into his pocket. “So, where were you last night, Selah? Poor Jude had to dance with Miss Applewhite.”
My insides drop like a stone. “What?”
“The dress rehearsal. You weren’t there.”
“Jude went?”
“He was late, and not at all in the appropriate attire. But yes. He came, which is more than I can say about you. Miss Applewhite was in quite the tizzy.”
“He’s going to the ball?”
“He’s a Vandenberg. Of course he’s going.”
“Who’s he going with?”
But Rafe has no time to answer.
Anything he has to say is drown out by a shout that cracks across the parking lot.
Another follows, higher-pitched and panicked. Mrs. Calloway is screaming. Joined by the booming voice of Mr. Calloway. “He’s stuck under the wheel!”
My heart lurches.
Twig!
I race toward the commotion, where the trailer has shifted forward, trapping Twig beneath the rear wheel. Mrs. Calloway and Kate are on their hands and knees, frantic, like they might crawl under the trailer to join him.
“One, two, three, push!” Carl commands.
I throw my weight into the trailer with several others. It lurches forward just enough for Twig to slide free. Mr. Calloway hauls Twig upright. Mrs. Calloway and Kate surround him.
“What happened?” Mayor Ridley demands, pushing his way forward.
“Someone pulled the brake lever,” Harrison Locke replies.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Should we call for an ambulance?” the mayor asks.
“It’ll be quicker if I take him,” Carl says, his face as bloodless as Twig’s, who’s wincing and clutching his arm. “Let’s go, son. We need to get this x-rayed.”
Twig goes with his dad, offering reassurances to his mother, his sister. He gives me a reassuring look, too.
I just stand there, frozen in place, my imagination shifting into overdrive as Carl ushers Twig through the crowd and calls over his shoulder, “Someone will have to drive Professor Doorn in the parade.”
They rush past Lainey.
Her eyes are wide.
Wild.
Guilty.
My stomach turns to lead.
According to Harrison, someone pulled the brake lever. And Lainey’s eyes are welling with tears as she spins on her heel and runs away.
“It’s amazing,” Rafe says, suddenly beside me, “how much excitement the simple pull of a lever can drum up. Be careful, Selah. The next one might not walk away.”
My heart gallops.
My body shakes.
Rafe slides his hands into his pockets and strolls toward Isabel.
Five minutes later, I stand at the doors of the Vandenberg manor, knocker in hand. But before I can do anything with it, the doors swing open. Jude appears, glancing over his shoulder, looking very much like a man on a mission. Until he catches sight of me and stops dead.
“Rafe just hurt Twig. I think his arm is broken.”
Jude’s brow furrows. “What?”
I open my mouth to elaborate when the items in his hands distract me. The compass, or at least, two halves of the compass, along with a brittle scrap of paper. “What is that?”
“I took it apart, and this was inside.”
He hands me the scrap.
It’s fragile in my fingers, like it might crumble if I breathe too hard. On it, someone has written a string of numbers, one stacked over the other. Six digits per line, grouped in pairs, each followed by a symbol. The first ends in N, the second in W.
“These are coordinates,” I whisper.
Old-fashioned coordinates. The kind you’d find on an explorer’s map from long ago. Degrees. Minutes. Seconds.
I flip the scrap over.
A short phrase has been scrawled on the back.
Beneath the highest point.
“I plugged them in.” Jude shows me a map on his phone with a pin dropped in the hills.
A gasp tumbles from my lips.
Because I know that location.
It’s the ruins of St. Fortuna’s.