Chapter 57
NOT EVEN A TRACE
Fire crackles in the grate. Rivulets of rain streak the windowpanes, smudging the dreary afternoon outside. I sit in the center of Jude’s four-poster bed surrounded by familiar items while he strips his wall, removing photographs, journal entries, and news articles.
I pick up the gemstones, emptied of their power, and shake them in my palm like dice, my gaze wandering from the carved-out Bible to the gold-plated compass to the charred silver husk that was once the locket.
It’s Saturday afternoon.
Twig’s at home, resting.
And the town is in an uproar.
Officials scramble to make sense of what happened, navigating confusion, community pressure, and outright condemnation.
How was a party of such magnitude allowed to unfold under their noses on public property?
And what is going on with these non-earthquakes?
First, the tremble at the ball. Now teens have reported another at the cemetery.
If nothing is turning up on the richter scale, then what is going on?
With a sigh, I let the gemstones spill from my hand and reach for the family tree, curled in on itself like a scroll.
I stretch it flat and eye Raphael’s line, which is no line at all.
Raphael II. Raphael III. Lucian. Rueben.
Frank. Thomas. I brush my finger over each name. All of them were one and the same.
Where is he now?
The rift vanished in the music room. No trace of it remains, not even the faintest of scars.
The destruction of Seraphina, along with the curse, seemed to have caused a supernatural glitch.
Jude and I were booted from its realm. But what about Rafe?
Is he stuck on the other side? According to him, his life was connected to Seraphina’s.
When she met her end, did he meet his, too?
I look at Jude, taking in his broad back, his slim waist as he removes Lydia Mabel’s autopsy report from the wall.
“You should frame this,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder.
I lift the family tree. “Hang it somewhere in the estate.”
“I’d rather throw it in the fire.”
“Maggie would die.”
“Maybe I should give it to her, then.”
I trace the branches of his lineage—one after another, marked by the curse. From Ezra all the way down to Jude’s father. Heartache and tragedy passed from father to son, and I wonder, how many of them knew what was going on?
My finger pauses over the scorch mark.
Elijah Vandenberg.
I think of his suicide note. His mother’s pain.
His father’s shame. Elijah’s final request—to tell his son everything.
But they refused, as if acknowledging the curse gave it power.
Isaiah remained oblivious, and the train flew off the tracks anyway, an attack not only on Vandenberg blood, but on every innocent passenger aboard.
Ignoring it hadn’t protected anyone.
It only kept them stuck in the same tragic loop.
Generation after generation.
Until we faced the monster head on, and broke ourselves free.
“What should we do with all this stuff?” I ask.
“We could put it in the crypt.” Jude sets the stack of evidence on his desk. “Lock it up,” he continues, his eyes on mine as he comes closer. “Throw away the key.”
I set the parchment aside and lean forward. “Maybe in fifty years, some girl will find it and dive head first into a supernatural mystery.”
“With her nose in every shadow.” He traces the ridge of my jaw with his thumb, sending a trail of sparks along my skin.
I lift my chin.
His lips find mine.
And my insides catch fire.
The kiss is soft.
Achingly so.
Until my hands slide around his neck.
He pulls me to him so that I’m drawn to my knees, his arm wrapped around my waist, our bodies pressed together as he lowers us onto the bed, and I’m so euphorically grateful for this freedom.
This gift. This tantalizing distraction.
Kissing Jude Vandenberg pushes the investigation, the missing girls, and Callie Reese far, far away.
I don’t want to stop.
Not ever.
But in one smooth maneuver, Jude flips us over so I’m on top of him, his arm bent casually behind his head as he rests back against the pillow, looking in complete control, and ever-so-slightly amused. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I narrow my eyes playfully.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I rest my head against his chest, relishing the sound of his heartbeat when a knock sounds at the door.
Jude groans, but he gets up and answers it anyway. Isabel stands on the other side. She never came to the hospital. Not like the Calloways. Not like my dad.
I try to make out their voices, but they’re low and muffled in the hallway. When he returns, he shuts the door with a soft click and drags a hand down his face.
“The police called,” he says. “They want us to come to the station to give a statement.”
My stomach churns.
I picture Ms. Winslow, racing to the front desk. I picture Griffin Tate, thrusting his phone in the officer’s face. What is more cruel? Telling the truth? Or letting them hold on to hope?
I worry my bottom lip. “Are we going to tell them what happened?”
“They’d never believe us if we did.”
He’s right, of course.
Despite all the evidence, even the craziness that occurred at the ball, they’d think we were joking.
Or maybe insane. Just like the Abners thought of my mother.
She wanted, more than anything, to help Simon Vandenberg and his family.
But the adults in her life wouldn’t listen to a truth so preposterous.
She doubled down and ended up in a psych ward where she was probably forced onto antipsychotics.
Was that what led to her addiction? If she’d just stayed quiet, would she have been okay? Or was it the silence that killed her?
Jude pulls me up from his bed.
“So what are we going to tell them, then?” I ask.
“A palatable version of the truth,” he suggests. “We were near the mausoleum when something shifted beneath the ground. We don’t know exactly what happened. We’re just glad we made it out.”
“So glad,” I whisper.
He wraps me in a hug.
“The officer at the hospital made it sound like they think it could’ve been a prank.” Knots twist in my stomach. My fingerprints and Twig’s fingerprints are all over that part of the cemetery. “Do you think there’s a chance Twig and I could be implicated?”
“No,” he says.
I lean back and study his face. “That’s a confident answer.”
He flashes a crooked grin. “What’s the benefit of money and connections if you can’t use them in your favor?”
“Does this mean you’ll be around to use them?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Last I heard, you were headed back to your boarding school.”
He kisses my neck. “Boarding schools aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
“Your rock-skipping will suffer.”
“My fencing, too.”
“Risky business,” I say breathlessly. “You never know when you’ll find yourself in a sword fight.”
“Yes, well.” His lips travel to the spot where my mark once was, but is no longer. Like the rift, not even a trace remains. “Who needs swords when you’re part angel?”
Foggy Hollow Police Department Press Briefing
Saturday, November 1, 2025 – 6:42 p.m. EST
CHIEF DOUGLAS PERRY: We can confirm that two students from Foggy Hollow High School—Lainey Sikes and Ivy Winslow—were reported missing early this morning, following an unsanctioned Halloween gathering at the town cemetery on Friday night.
We take these reports very seriously and are doing everything in our power to locate both girls and bring them home safely.
At this time, there is no confirmed evidence of foul play. However, we are treating this as an active investigation. Search and rescue operations began this afternoon and will continue through the coming days with assistance from county authorities and local volunteers.
We are also monitoring the condition of Callie Reese, who sustained serious injuries at the same gathering. Our thoughts are with her and her family during this difficult time.
We urge anyone who was present at the cemetery on Halloween night to come forward, even if you think what you saw wasn’t important. We are also reviewing security footage from local businesses and traffic cameras.
If you have any information that could aid our investigation, please call the Foggy Hollow tip line.
We ask the community for patience and cooperation. We know this is a frightening time, especially for the families involved. I assure you, we are doing everything we can.