36
A WALL OF EVIDENCE
The next day, Jude isn’t at school.
Each period crawls by at a snail’s pace.
By the time U.S. History rolls around, I’m about to come out of my skin. I stare at the clock, bouncing my knee and tapping my pencil to such a distracting degree, Harper gives me an exasperated look halfway through Langley’s lecture about the First Continental Congress.
But I can’t seem to help myself.
My body won’t settle. Neither will my mind. It keeps jumping from one peculiarity to the next. The portrait. The gemstones. My dreams. The loose floorboard in Simon’s room. My mother. The mark beneath her collarbone, which leads back to the portrait, and Molly, and now, Lydia Mabel.
After our discovery in town hall, Jude hardlyspoke. He snapped pictures of the report, then asked to see the coroner’s inquest for Violet Underwagon, who died in an animal attack alongside Ruth Vandenberg in 1832. But there was no coroner’s inquest to be found, even though this was after the fire. The whole time, he remained silent and brooding. All in all, I saw him for no more than thirty minutes. He got his information about Lydia, he tried to get more about Violet, then he left.
And he’s been ghosting me ever since.
Too bad for him, I refuse to be ghosted.
As soon as the final bell rings, I head straight to the manor. Mr. Tulane answers the door with his trademark bow. I tell him Jude invited me. He doesn’t call my bluff, but welcomes me inside. I hurry up the stairs, march through the upper hall, and rap on Jude’s door.
A moment later, it opens.
He stands on the other side like a tortured poet on a bender—his shirt untucked, his hair a mess, the shadows beneath his eyes so dark they’re like bruises. The look has no right to flatter anyone, and yet somehow on him …
“Where were you today?” I ask, shifting in an attempt to see past him, into his private quarters.
But he shifts, too, like he’s hiding something. “I think you should go.”
“Why?”
He drags his hand down his face. His jaw is tight, and when he speaks, his words are, too. “Because something is obviously going on here, and I think it’s better if you’re not involved.”
I blink up at him. “You’re joking, right?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stands there looking miserable.
“Jude, I’ve been involved since the day I was born. Two centuries before then, actually.”
“Selah.” He says my name like it’s a torment.
And I’ve had enough.
I barge past him.
He doesn’t stop me. I’ll give him that.
Dreary sunlight filters through his windows, illuminating a wall that looks like a murder board in a squad room. It’s been covered in paper—copies of pictures, letters, journal entries, newspaper articles, death records.
Without realizing it, I’ve moved closer.
All the tragedies I’ve been keeping on a notecard in my bedroom are here on his wall. In chronological order and carefully documented.
Pre-Revolutionary War: Molly Ludwig dies by suicide. There’s the sketch of Molly. Or rather, a printed copy of the sketch. The symbol in the corner has been circled in red ink, along with three words written in bold handwriting—Ezra loved her.
Post Revolution: Lydia Mabel dies by arsenic. Next to it, he’s pinned her autopsy report. The symbol has been circled in the same red ink. Three words have been written in the same bold handwriting—Amos loved her.
Fire of 1822: Florence Wessel is one of the victims. He’s included the scandalous love letter. It’s obvious Amos loved her, too.
