He takes a deep breath. “If we can figure out who or what is to blame, we’ll be a step closer to figuring out how to fix it.”
I rub out a drawing of an hourglass with my toe. “Do people really think it’s something intentional? Like a curse?”
“Some do,” he says. “But it’s all wild theories and finger-pointing, and it always has been.” He picks up a glass bottle at his feet, knocks it against his palm. Then he suddenly hurls it away from us, into the cornstalks. “Because if you look hard enough, you can find a reason to suspect almost anyone.”
Wind rustles the cornstalks in a wave around us, and I shiver. I think again of Mother’s book, of the strange markings within it.
“One more thing,” I say as we turn to go. “The Disappearances—?do they have anything to do with Shakespeare?”
The look he gives me is genuine bewilderment. “Shakespeare?”
“Never mind.” I shrug and give him a half smile to hide my suspicions and how much it hurts to see Mother’s home burned and scrawled over with slanders. I’m learning that I’m actually quite good at hiding things.
I am my mother’s daughter, after all.
Chapter Twelve
Date: 2/28/1941
Bird: Jackdaw
Jackdaws are unusual in that they will often share their own food with others.
Known to steal jewelry and other shiny things to collect in their nests.
Sometimes considered to be an omen of death.
Phineas doesn’t have any money.
At first I just chalk it up to his moods, which wax and wane like the moon. The way Phineas barks when I spill the milk. Drags his feet to replace burnt-out light bulbs. The way the phone jangles shrilly and his smile warps. “Don’t pick it up.”
Then he starts to cough. It’s as though the telephone calls make it worse. “You know, you think you can repay your past mistakes,” he says, hacking into one of his pristine handkerchiefs. “But you never can. That debt will just keep growing. Like mold. Until you can’t breathe.”
“Do you owe someone something?” I ask.
He just shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”
The sharp knock comes two days later. I’m prying off the old battens of the porch screens when I hear Phineas swear, then open the door. I grab my pocketknife and walk toward the kitchen.
An unfamiliar voice. “I’ve come to collect, Phineas.”
I stand in the shadows and hold my breath. “I paid your father back, Victor,” Phineas says. “Every penny.”
“Yes, of the original loan. But not the interest we lost while you were in the clink. It’s nothing personal, Phineas,” the voice says. “Just business.”
I click open the pocketknife. Then I flick it shut and stride into the kitchen.
“I’ll get it,” I say to the man. He has wispy black hair, a small beard and a pointed chin that make him sort of resemble a mouse, and small, blazing eyes that seem to be almost entirely iris. “Don’t bother him anymore. He’s dead broke. I’m the one you should concern yourself with. Stefen Shaw.” I thrust out my hand.
Phineas glares. Takes a cut of gristly meat from the icebox and unwraps it, muttering, at the counter.
“Victor Larkin,” the man says, taking my grip. He keeps shaking my hand, hard, even after I try to let go.
“Don’t be a damn fool, Stefen,” Phineas says.
“I’ll get it,” I repeat to Victor Larkin. We make arrangements for the first installment, and then I firmly escort him to the door.
Phineas lights the gas stove, his back turned to me. “Where’s that money going to come from, Stefen?”
