He gives me nothing.
Certainly no ghost of a smile.
I press onward. “There’s a ceremony afterward, where we light lanterns in honor of the people who died, and set them sail down the river. Most of the town gathers at The Silver Lantern to send them off, but I like to watch from the covered bridge on?—”
“I’m not interested,” he interrupts, the clipped tone of his voice landing like a slap. “In the reenactment, or being used for fodder.”
“Fodder?”
“For your podcast.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks.
“I Googled you.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and shows me the screen.Accounts of the Uncannyis the top search result, along with our two most popular episodes. Both feature the cold case.
“You’re obsessed with my family,” he says.
“No, I’m obsessed with all things strange and mysterious. What happened to your family fits the bill.”
“We’re not a circus.”
“I never said you were.”
“Entertainment though, yeah?”
I open my mouth.
But he gives me no opportunity to reply. “Look,” he says. “You found a way to live on this estate. Which, kudos to you, that’s impressive. It doesn’t mean we’re going to carpool. Or be friends. Or discuss literature at lunch.”
He steps inside his home, but before he can shut the doors in my face, I press my palm against one of them. “I have no idea what life was like for you wherever you lived before, but you should know that being rich and good-looking doesn’t excuse poor behavior.”
He glares at my hand.
I glare back. “And co-hosting a podcast about the uncanny in a town that provides plenty of content isn’t a crime. Of course the Vandenberg cold case would be featured. A family of four vanishinginto thin air is pretty uncanny, if you ask me. I wasn’t inviting you to the reenactment to get fodder. I was inviting you because I was being nice. And friendly. If you don’t know what those words mean, I suggest youGooglethem, too.”
Without waiting for his retort, I turn on my heel and march away. Apparently, I was wrong. He’s a lot more like his cousin than I thought.
Jude the Jerk.
And Rafe the Rake.
Both may be beautiful, but they really need to work on their manners.
8
THE LANTERN CEREMONY
Ipeek out from behind the curtain, which has just enough girth to conceal the smoke machines positioned stage left and stage right. Twig runs the one across from me on stage left, looking—as his mother said—a little peaked. He releases a burst of smoke as performers in period attire flee across the stage.
Torches line the edge of town square, their flames flickering against brick storefronts. The grassy plaza is alive with spectators watching the performance unfold. Mayor Ridley sits front and center, dressed in his well-worn blazer with his phoenix lapel pin. He’s surrounded by the entire board of the Foggy Hollow Preservation Society, not to be confused with the Foggy Hollow Historical Society.
The former is made up of wealthy, well-connected, socially prominent individuals who look down their noses at the latter, which consists of my boss, Maggie Henshaw, and her partner in crime, Walt Jensen. What they lack in donations they make up for with tenacity and duct tape. I scan the crowd for them now, but can’t find either.
Behind me, a stagehand rolls out a replica of the old schoolhouse, where Mercy Bogaard once taught. My moment in the spotlight is quickly approaching. I adjust the sleeves of my cotton dress, double check the tie of my apron, straighten my bonnet, and run my hand down the length of my long plait.
Twig releases more smoke.
Kate—AKA, Ida Vandenberg, wife of Amos Vandenberg—screams on stage.
