I set my hands on the railing and look down into the foyer below, picturing the estate in all its former glory. Filled with people in extravagant gowns, ten Mr. Tulane’s smartly dressed in black tuxedos with tailcoats, their white gloved hands balancing silver trays arranged with hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. I can hear the music, the tinkling of crystal, the hum of conversation and laughter.
“Are you coming?” Jude asks, his voice tinged with impatience.
The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. A corridor stretches into each wing, and there are two sets of double doors—one to the left and one to the right. Jude moves to the set on the left. He pushes them open and steps inside.
We’ve reached his bedroom.
Grand in size with a fireplace and a mantle, a pair of sitting chairs on either side of a table, a luxurious armoire, an antique desk, and an opened door that gives way to the tiled flooring of an en suite bathroom. French doors lead to a private balcony. There’s a glass of water and a book on his nightstand. At some point last week, he’dexchangedMacbethforCrime and Punishmentby Fyodor Dostoevsky.
He gestures agitatedly toward the bed, which I’ve been visually skirting up until now. It feels very intimate, looking at Jude Vandenberg’s bed—a king-sized four poster with hunter green bedding ever so slightly rumpled. And there, resting on top, lies a portrait. From my purview in his doorway, I can’t make it out. I can only tell that it’s large with a thick frame, heavily carved and covered in gold leaf.
I approach slowly, almost reverently, and it takes a minute to process what I’m seeing. A portrait of a young woman painted long ago. She wears a white dress with delicate short sleeves and a scooped neckline. A silver locket rests in her décolletage. It’s carved with a symbol that strikes a familiar cord. Her rich auburn hair is fashioned into springy curls that frame her face. Which is …myface.
It’smein that painting.
A fact that makes my mind short circuit.
I try to say something—to utter words, questions, accusations of my own—but my tongue fumbles every attempt.
Meanwhile, Jude stands there, studying me intently.
Finally, I manage a simple, albeit breathless phrase. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I.”
I take a few steps closer, eyes narrowing at thegirl’s lips, drawn slightly upward. They are my lips. The exact shape and shade. “Is this a weird joke?”
“That’s whatIthought, remember?”
“This is the painting Rafe was going on about? The one by Ezra Vandenberg?”
His magnum opus.
Jude sweeps his hand toward his bed with a terse exhale. “When I arrived last night, there it was.”
“Is it authentic?”
I can tell he wants to say no. Or he’s not sure. His attention lowers to the portrait. He scrutinizes it like his own intensity might conjure errors, mistakes. Anything that could elude to a counterfeit. Rafe had this commissioned to mess with us. He’s playing a very expensive, very bizarre prank. “From what I can tell?” When he looks up at me, the shadows beneath his eyes resemble faint bruises. “It’s authentic.”
Silence falls.
There’s nothing but the echoing tick of a clock somewhere outside his room.
Jude drags his hand down his face. “Are your ancestors from Foggy Hollow?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. We moved here—me and my dad. From Ohio.”
“What about your mom?”
“She was born in Missouri.” I lean forward to get a better look at the silver locket, carved with a delicate symbol that is unnervingly familiar. Aninverted tear drop inside an open circle, like a halo unfinished. “I feel like I’ve seen this before.”
“The locket?”
“The symbol.” I look closer. “But I’m not sure from where.”
“I wondered if you would show it to her.”
Jude and I turn in tandem.
