Chapter 27
He wears a red ringer T-shirt, jean shorts that cut high above his knees, and dirty Converse sneakers. A white lollipop stick juts out from between his blue-shaded lips. My stomach flutters. I squash my hand against my abdomen, trying to calm the unexpected commotion inside me.
I huff out a laugh, but it comes out breathier than I intend. His voice, his smirk, his jokes. It’s unfair. He doesn’t even have to try to be cool.
He taps the side of his head. “Also, why do you always wear those things in your ears?”
I rub my fingers over my buds, then shrug. “I listen to live music.”
“By who?”
“Anyone. Loud stuff. I like when the crowds chant.”
“Why?” He bites his lollipop.
“It makes me feel like I’m somewhere other than Penango.”
“You know, I’ve been on stage at the Coachella and Lollapalooza music festivals.”
“No way.” I gasp. “Being invisible has its perks. I bet that was amazing.”
“It would’ve been even better with someone else.” He flicks the lollipop stick into the trash. “What’s been your favorite concert?”
I press the elevator button. “I’ve never gone to one.”
“What?” He drops his chin. “We need to change that.” His eyes float to the ceiling, mulling over a thought.
We do. But there are other things we need to change first.
When we reach the archives department, the same old man in the same beige cardigan leans over the same gigantic book. I wonder if he’s even turned the page since my last visit.
He looks up from his magnifying glass. “Hello again, young man,” he says with a faint smile.
“Hi,” I say. “You remember me?”
He nods. “Of course. Not many people pay a visit to the archives department. Especially during the summer months. It can get rather lonely down here in the basement.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re here, then.”
“What can I help you with today? Another pool?”
“No, actually. My friend and I are interested in a tree. The Ardor Tree, to be specific. Do you know about it?”
He winks. “Everyone in Penango does. My wife and I are on there—Stillwell Trail High School class of 1973.”
“Great!” I nearly shout. “Can you take us to those files?”
“Yes, it would be under the parks and preservation department.” He points to his left. “But would you like me to wait until your friend arrives to show you?”
The blood drains from my face.
I turn to Xander. His eyes are fixed on the floor, his jaw tight as he crunches down on a fingernail. My heart aches. I just reminded him, again, that he’s nobody to the rest of the world. This must never feel good, even after a decade.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, barely audible.
He forces a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” he says softly.
But I don’t believe him.
I turn back to the old man, fumbling for my phone as an excuse. “Actually, uh, he just texted me and said I can do this on my own.” I clear my throat. “You can take me back now.”
The man nods. “Right this way.”
As I follow him, my shoes squeak against the floor, the familiar metal shelves groaning beside us. Xander trails just behind, his presence a shadow.
“What has you interested in the Tree?” the old man asks.
I shrug. “I just want to know more about why people write their names on it.” I glance at Xander.
“Ah, yes. Love. An eternal question.” The old man sighs. “Let me know if you find the answer.” He grips a shelf for balance. “Have you fixed yourself on there with a nice young lady?”
A deep laugh escapes the back of my throat before I can stop it. “Uh—no, not really.”
“One day,” he muses. “One day.”
“I wonder who the lucky young lady will be,” Xander whispers. He clutches his hands behind his back as he walks.
I wrinkle my nose. “Shut up.” I nudge him with my elbow. “At least I put my name on there with another person.”
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Damn,Stetson. I was joking. But low blow.”
“Sorry, stress.” I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “This is a big moment.”
His hot breath tickles my ear as he leans in. “It doesn’t seem like you handle stress well.” A shiver shoots down my spine.
I open my mouth to respond, but the old man interrupts us. Or me.
“Now, the Ardor Tree is just a nickname, you know that, right?” he asks.
I nod, refocusing.
“So, I’m not sure what you’ll find specifically on the tree itself, but it sits on the Thaddeus Gregor Preserve. That land was a grant from William Penn to the Gregor family sometime around 1700.”
I make for the boxes on a shelf labeled Parks and Preservation. My mouth goes sour. “Please don’t tell me these are sorted by year.” I stare at him with my jaw slack.
He chuckles, then coughs into his fist. “No, no. Fortunately all the Gregor Preserve records are in one spot. They’re on the fourth shelf down.”
Relief washes over me. “Awesome. I’ll let you know if we have questions.”
He starts to walk away but pauses, lifting a finger. “Oh, and, son. We close in an hour, so you’ll need to finish by three forty-five.”
As he disappears down the aisle, Xander lets out a groan. “He’s kidding, right? We have to dig through three hundred years of Penango history in forty-five minutes?”
“Apparently.” I exhale. “Let’s not waste another minute talking. I’ll start with the left side of the shelf. You take the right.”
We get to work, pulling boxes from the shelves. Dust coats my fingertips almost instantly as I lift the cardboard lids and sift through brittle manila folders.
The first box is completely unlabeled. I fish out a slip of paper and skim its contents:
The 200-acre Gregor Preserve contains meadows, uplands, and mature woods, and provides passive recreation and over eight miles of mown and wooded natural surface trails.
I smirk and shake my head.
I’m a rational person. Or at least, I used to be, before I ended up in a basement with my invisible friend searching for the origins of a moving tree.
Math has always been my thing because it makes sense. The numbers add up the same way no matter who does the calculations. Unlike English class, feelings, or this entire summer.
If Murray and I worked through the same math problem and came up with different answers, one of us would be right and the other wrong—it’s simple. But if we read the same story in English class, wrote about completely different themes, and turned in wildly different essays, we’d both get an A.
We lived through the same senior year of high school, but somehow, we feel completely different about what happened during it.
That’s why the financial aid rejection stings so badly. It was supposed to be based on metrics, a formula, a system that made logical sense. But something else must’ve been tossed into the mix, something unpredictable or subjective like feelings or human error.
And that’s exactly what this summer has been. An unsolvable equation. A problem I never saw coming.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Xander asks, stretching onto his tiptoes to grab a box from the shelf.
“Something suspicious looking,” I half answer, flipping through a document about event permits for the preserve. At this rate, I won’t even get through one file before this place closes.
Xander pulls out a photo. “Here’s a picture of a horse farm,” he says, holding it up. He squints at one of the horses. “This brown one is definitely giving some serious side-eye. It’s up to no good . . . Could be our guy.”
I snort. “Yeah, we found our culprit. Mystery solved.” Then I sigh, glancing at the long row of shelves. “Honestly, just take pictures of everything. There’s no way we can read through all of this here. We’ll go through them later.”
“Ohhh,” Xander hums. “Here’s a picture of Thaddy Daddy.”
I frown. “Thaddy what?”
“Thaddy Daddy,” he repeats with a smirk. “Thaddeus Gregor. Keeper of the preserve.”
I shake my head. “Let’s not call him daddy when he could be responsible for our demise.
” I scoot to Xander’s side and take the picture from his hands.
It’s a detailed sketch of a colonial man with long hair, a black top hat, and sharp stare.
“Okay, your side of the shelf is way more interesting than mine. They must be hiding the good stuff over here.”
“Then dig faster,” he instructs.
We tear through his box, quickly forming a system. He pulls out documents, I snap pictures with my phone. Words and images blur together in my mind like a cash-grab machine at a carnival, except instead of snatching dollar bills, I’m trying to grab onto clues.
It’s the handwritten captions beneath the illustrations that stand out the most:
Thaddeus Gregor, born in 1631, was a soldier in the parliamentary army during England’s Civil Wars.
Thaddeus Gregor, a “First Purchaser” of Pennsylvania after receiving one of William Penn’s Fall 1681 plots.
Thaddeus Gregor and his four children, leaders of the Quaker migration to Pennsylvania.
“Hold up,” I say, sitting up straighter. A caption stops me in my tracks. Something’s different.
A number.
“What?” Xander slides closer on his reddened knees. “Did you find the Ardor Tree?”
“No. But look at this picture.”
Xander sighs. “It’s just Thaddy Daddy and his kids again.”
“Yeah, but look—it says his three kids. Henry, Albert, and Agnes. Every other picture says four.”
His brows knit together. “Whoa. Who’s missing?”
I scroll back through my photos. “There were always two men and two women before. This time, one of the girls is gone. It looks like her name was Louise.” A dozen more pictures from the box show her missing.
Xander’s mouth tightens. “Maybe she died?”
“Or maybe she went invisible?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Or she just wasn’t in the mood for a family portrait.”
I shake my head. “These are drawings, not photos. She didn’t get caught in traffic. Someone intentionally left her out.”
Suddenly, my phone alarm blares through the silent archive.
Xander jumps. “Ah,” he yelps. “Why did you set an alarm?”
I groan. “Crap. We need to clean up before Grandpa locks us in here.”
I snap a few more pictures while Xander hurries to restack boxes. Just as he slides the first one onto the shelf, the lights snap off.
A door slams somewhere in the distance. The sound echoes like a closing prison cell. It settles in fast that the archives department has no windows.
It’s black, darker than midnight.
“Uhhh, did he forget about us?” Xander asks.
“He must have,” I say, gripping a stack of papers.
“We have enough info for now. Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me, and take a cautious step forward. Immediately, my hip collides with the edge of a steel shelf. A pained whimper slips from my lips.
“Stetson?” Xander’s voice shifts.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, gripping my side. I reach for my phone, fingers fumbling in my back pocket ready to use its flashlight. But I stop when Xander’s hand settles on my shoulder.
Slowly, his palm glides down my arm. His fingertips trace a quiet path over my skin until he links his fingers with mine. The warmth of his hand spreads through me like fire over dry leaves.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Let me help you.”
I swallow. Hard.
“Okay,” I say. It’s barely more than a whisper.
My phone stays in my pocket. If he doesn’t need the light, neither do I.
We move together through the pitch-black aisles with our fingers entwined. Every few seconds, Xander gives my hand a gentle squeeze, reassuring his lead. I squeeze back, letting him know I trust the path he’s chosen for us.
The darkness doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore. If anything, it feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.