Chapter 39
THE SECRET DOOR
We park at the cemetery and walk the rest of the way, the blue dot on Jude’s phone tracking our movement.
Clouds have gathered on the horizon. Wind begins to stir.
It’s almost as if the weather can sense my mood—on edge, wound tight, my insides a snarl.
I can’t stop thinking about Twig, or how easily that wheel could have rolled over something more vital than his arm.
Beside me, Jude walks with his mouth set, his jaw tense, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He has fixed his attention straight ahead, because heaven forbid it lands on me.
I want to shout at him.
Your cousin did this!
He threatened me by hurting Twig. He manipulated Lainey, who had no control over that trailer.
I can’t stop picturing Mrs. Calloway and Kate on their hands and knees, frantically calling his name.
His legs thrashing as he cried out in pain.
Rafe did that. Rafe’s responsible for that.
And yet, Jude’s acting like I’m the leper, like I’ve done something wrong.
Like he couldn’t stand being in that car with me for one more second.
Well, fine.
If my presence is such a horrible thing to bear, I won’t subject him to the misery.
I lengthen my stride. Mercy Bogaard’s dress billows around my ankles as I weave between sunken gravestones, their epitaphs long faded.
There must be something here worth discovering.
Why else would the scrap of paper be hidden inside a compass that was hidden inside a Bible?
A blanket of fallen leaves surrounds the skeletal remains of St. Fortuna’s. Honeysuckle crawls up broken archways. Moss creeps over fallen stone. Virginia creeper snakes around blackened support beams that protrude from the earth like a ribcage—blood-red veins over scorched bone.
I step over a crumbled wall, into the footprint of the former chapel. Beneath my boots, faint mosaic flooring peeks through layers of dirt and debris.
Birdsong fills the quiet.
And then my phone.
It dings with a message from Twig.
Deemed non-urgent. Stuck in waiting room. Guy with chest pain got right in. I should have exaggerated. Arm hurts like a nutcracker. How’s the parade?
I type back a quick, slightly deceptive reply, my guilt quadrupling. But what can I say in a text? This is a story I have to tell him in person. I add some extra exclamation points, two heart emojis, and hit send.
“This is supposed to be the spot,” Jude says, glancing at his phone. He stands directly in front of an elevated stone base, cracked and covered with ivy.
St. Fortuna’s altar.
We search the area, nudging loose stones with our shoes—looking for what, I’m not even sure. Jude puts the compass back together, but like always, it twitches erratically.
I set my hands on my hips.
The scrap of paper had coordinates. But it also had a clue. “Beneath the highest point,” I mutter, more to myself than Jude.
The altar could be the highest point spiritually. But physically? That would’ve been the steeple. Probably the tallest thing in all of Foggy Hollow pre-fire. I turn in a slow circle until I spot it—a knee-high ring of sunken stone at the far corner, half-buried.
“St. Fortuna’s bell tower,” I say. “That has to be it.”
We hurry forward, and without a word, we start clearing the area.
We sweep aside dead leaves and brittle branches.
We pull back briars and curtains of ivy, yanking at the clinging vines.
We haul away chunks of stone, some so large we have to lift them together.
At some point, I remove my coat. We don’t stop until we’re both dirt-smeared and breathless and all that’s left is bare earth.
Beneath the highest point.
Jude and I share a fevered glance. Then we drop to our knees and dig.
The soil is damp. Dirt wedges beneath my fingernails as we tear through roots, our urgency growing, like we’re digging toward something crucial. Finally, my knuckles scrape against a smooth, solid surface.
I pause for a moment, my breath catching. Then I dig harder, scooping away the earth until we’ve uncovered a flat stone slab too symmetrical to be an accident.
“It looks like a door,” Jude says.
My phone dings in the pocket of my coat.
I’m sure it’s from Twig.
Maybe he finally got a room. Or he had his x-ray. I picture him in a sterile hospital, annoyed about missing the parade—while I’m here, in this once sacred space, unearthing century-old clues.
Jude brushes away the last of the dirt, exposing seams and edges. Along one of them, a shallow groove has been carved into the stone. Just big enough for a person to slide their fingers beneath.
So I slide mine in and pull with all my might.
The door doesn’t budge.
Jude tries next. The tendons in his neck strain. His face goes red. The slab shifts—a centimeter, then an inch. He’s lifting it, ever so slightly.
Quickly, I grab a nearby rock and wedge it underneath, holding the stone up so we don’t lose progress. We reposition ourselves, side by side on our knees, and slide our hands beneath the propped corner. Together, we try to lift, but we’re too close to the ground to get any leverage.
I find a stick in the rubble and try using it as a lever.
It snaps in half.
Jude spots a partially burned beam a few feet away.
It’s charred on the outside, but when he knocks it against a rock, it holds.
He jams the beam into the narrow gap, and slowly, he shifts the slab again, just enough to get my arms completely under it.
My back aches as we give one final heave and push the door aside.
“Great Scott,” I whisper.
A narrow stone stairwell descends into darkness.
Jude uses the flashlight on his phone, and together, we climb down the stairs.
The walls are damp to the touch and lined with sconces—half-melted candles still intact in their holders.
The air smells of wet earth and decay and the temperature drops with every step.
By the time we reach the flagstone landing, it’s cold enough to make me wish I’d grabbed my coat.
We’ve reached a small antechamber. A cast-iron door looms before us, set into an arched frame inscribed with Latin. Jude shines his light across the carved words.
“Quod clausum est,” he reads aloud, tilting his head. “Manere clausum debet.”
“Did you learn Latin at boarding school?”
He eyes the inscription. “That which is closed … must remain closed.”
“That’s creepy,” I mutter.
He moves his flashlight down the length of the door. The beam glides over a keyhole and comes to an abrupt stop.
I move my hand to my clavicle, over the key I’ve taken to wearing like a necklace. Just like my mother used to. I slide the chain from around my neck. I fit the key into the hole, just like I’ve done a hundred times before, in every keyhole we could find.
Only this time … the lock clicks.