The Vandenbergs are MIA.
I called Jude twice last night. The first rang and rang. The second went straight to voicemail, making me want to scream. Or maybe cry. I sent him a cryptic text instead, thinking curiosity might tempt him into conversation.
Just discovered something big. Call me.
It went as unanswered as every other text I have sent him this week. Apparently, the only way I’m going to be able to tell him about last night’s discovery will be face-to-face.
Wheels clatter over uneven concrete as I pocket my phone and rub my hands to ward off the chill. Mrs. Calloway approaches, pulling a red Radio Flyer filled with bottled waters, granola bars, and—because she’s Mrs. Calloway—a selection of individually wrapped homemade goodies. She passes the wagon to me with profound gratitude, like I’m saving lives instead of handing out provisions.
“I’m happy to help,” I say with a smile.
She gives my elbow an appreciative squeeze. The walkie-talkie clipped to the pocket of her coat squawks. She excuses herself with a harried expression and joins the inspector in front of the Phoenix Float—a giant, mythical bird constructed from metal wire and papier-mâché, complete with wings that flap as it rises from the smoke. It’s the parade’s grand finale. Every year, it’s preceded by the marching band and joined by the color guard, who dress in fiery colors and wave red and orange flags.
Right now, though, neither the wings nor the fog machine are working. Not ideal for a grand finale. Mr. Calloway and Twig are on the job, though, which means Mrs. Calloway has no reason to fret. They’ll figure out what’s wrong and get things up and running in no time.
I pull the wagon to the Dutch float, decked out with tulips, a windmill, wooden shoes, and a sign that reads, “In search of new beginnings.” A tribute to our town’s heritage. Several people help themselves to drinks and snacks.
The Founder’s float is next, featuring Andreas Vandenberg, Tobias Bogaard, and Amadeaus Doorn—played by three overly serious men from the Preservation Society. Then comes the float I’ll be joining, a burning building facade with faux flames made of red and orange cellophane blown upward by a pair of electric fans. Torch bearerswill march in front and behind. The Aftermath float follows, an ash heap mostly, ridden by kids from junior theater. They descend on Mrs. Calloway’s wagon like tiny chimney sweeps, snatching up most of the homemade goodies when at last the Cadillac arrives.
My heart soars.
I quickly look away, needing a second to collect myself. Across the lot, Kate breaks away from the cheerleading squad to join her mother. They give a cheer as the fog machine sputters to life. Twig hops off the trailer and crawls underneath to work on the motor for the wing mechanism.
I take a steadying breath and peek again at the Cadillac.
Only then do I notice.
Jude isn’t driving. Instead, Rafe sits behind the wheel. Isabel rides shotgun. I crane my neck, searching for Jude in the back seat.
But he isn’t there.
My stomach plummets as Rafe eases the Cadillac into place. He steps out looking like he belongs in one of those black and white perfume ads. He’s wearing dark trousers, a white button down shirt open at the collar, a black leather jacket, and dark sunglasses.
He circles around the chrome grille, opens the door, and offers Isabel his hand. She takes it like she’s royalty—sliding out in a wide-brimmed hat and a cream-colored coat dress with oversizedlapels and gold buttons. It’s unnerving, watching them smile at one another when not so long ago, Rafe made her cry out in pain.
Isabel glides toward Mayor Ridley’s wife and greets her with kisses on both cheeks. Rafe lingers behind. He leans against the Cadillac, one ankle crossed over the other, a picture of careless charm. Then he lowers his sunglasses just enough to meet my gaze.
He flashes a wicked grin.
Clenching my jaw, I grab the wagon handle and wheel it toward him.
“Selah Whitlock,” he says, his grin widening. “Looking dutiful as ever.”
“Where’s Jude?” I ask.
“He didn’t tell you?”
My grip on the wagon handle tightens.
Rafe clicks his tongue. “How rude of him. We’ll have to have a little chat about being more considerate.”
“Where is he, Rafe?”
“He stayed behind. Isabel was disappointed, of course, but what can she do? He’s adamantly uninterested. Inanything, really. Which has become a problem, hasn’t it?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “What’s going on between the two of you, Selah? Trouble in paradise?”
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I fold my arms and lift my chin. “I know what you’re up to.”
He arches a brow. “Do tell.”
