“Is it ever?”
I blink several times, dumbfounded by his take. “You don’t believe in evil?”
“I take it you do,” he says with a bit of an eye roll, likeI’marchaic and uninformed.
I set my elbow on the back of my chair. “I’m not saying those women were actual witches, but Iabsolutely believe in evil.” People were tortured. Innocent lives were taken. Power was absolutely abused. If that’s not evil, what is?
Jude gives his pen a disinterested twirl.
“If you don’t believe in evil, then how do you explain a guy like Ted Bundy? Or Adolf Hitler?”
“Chemical imbalances in the brain?”
I open my mouth, a ready retort on the tip of my tongue, but Langley gives his throat a loud clear, pulling the focus back to himself. I hadn’t noticed, but the class’s attention was pin-balling between me and Jude like spectators at a tennis match.
“Yes, well,” Langley says, smoothing his notes. “You’ve both touched on some fascinating points …”
The droning resumes.
But I’m no longer taking notes. I’m too distracted by the prickle on the back of my neck. When I peek over my shoulder, Jude is staring. And for the first time today, a ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.
I stand before the manor’s imposing entrance, staring at the brass knocker—shaped into the likeness of a hollow-eyed beast. With a tangle of awe and nerves, I lift the ring hanging from its fanged mouth and let it fall with a sharp knock.
I take a step back, tugging at my sleeves. Theoak doors are a masterpiece, intricately carved with angelic imagery. Lichen speckles the archway above them. On either side, stone gargoyles stand sentry, their features long since eroded.
Hinges groan as the doors open.
Mr. Tulane appears on the other side dressed like Alfred Pennysworth, his hair neat, his eyebrows wild, and while I should look at him, I can’t help but crane my neck to look past him, inside the home where the Vandenbergs disappeared. Even with an obstructed view, I can make out the double staircase in the grand foyer, spiraling outward before coming together on the second floor.
“Good afternoon, Miss Clara.”
My attention jerks from the massive chandelier so quickly, I give myself whiplash. “What did you just call me?”
He blinks his protuberant eyes as footsteps sound behind him. Jude strides toward us. Instead of inviting me in, he joins me outside with a terse nod at Tulane.
I point dumbly at the doors. “He called me Clara.”
“What?”
“Mr. Tulane just called me Clara.”
And Clara is my mother’s name.
“Are you sure he didn’t say Sara?” Jude asks.
“Why would he call me Sara?”
“The same reason he calls Isabel Sara. I think it’s the name of his niece.” Jude crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”
The curt question is nearly as jarring as Tulane’s strange greeting. Apparently, his ghost-of-a-smile in class was a one-off. Or maybe my imagination. Like hearing Clara instead of Sara. I shake off the cold welcome. “I wanted to invite you to the reenactment on Friday.”
“The reenactment?”
“The Burning of Foggy Hollow, a Living History. It’s this whole thing we do in town square every year, and it just so happens to feature your great, great, something-or-other grandfather.” I rock onto the outer edges of my combat boots, ankles tilting outward. “This year, he’s being played by Harrison Locke, who is Twig’s sister’s boyfriend.”
Jude furrows his brow.
“You should come. It’s an ode to our town’s history. And in this particular instance, something reallydidburn. Not witches. At least, none that we know of.”
