Rafe leans against the doorframe with his arms casually crossed, one corner of his mouth tipped infuriatingly upward. His words come back to me—something he said in the graveyard when we first met.
You look like someone.
“This is who you were talking about. The girl yousort of know.” I put air-quotes around the phrase.
“Good memory. And yes. I’ve never officially met her, but I’ve had this painting for so long, it feels like I sort of do, you know?”
“Who is she?” I ask.
“That is the million dollar question.”
“Where did you get it?” Jude asks.
“It’s been handed down through the generations. I’m not sure how it ended up on my side of the family. Technically, your side created it.”
Jude stares at him.
“Your lineage descends from Ezra. My lineage descends from Ezra’s younger brother, Raphael. I’m named after him, actually.” Rafe tosses a glance at the painting. “You really don’t knowanything about this portrait? Your father never shared the story?”
“Obviously not,” Jude replies, his jaw tight.
“I suppose, with him passing when you were so tragically young, he never got around to it.” Rafe saunters into Jude’s bedroom with his hands in his pockets. “As the story goes, Ezra came home from the Revolutionary War consumed with a woman who wasn’t his wife. For decades, he painted her obsessively, but could never quite capture her likeness. Until he did. He had it framed, and then he died. As you can imagine, his poor wife wanted to destroy the thing. His son, Amos, objected. And it has passed down through the generations ever since. We’re lucky such an exquisite work of art didn’t burn in the fire.”
I stare at the painting.
At the portrait.
Atme.
“She really is a stunning beauty,” he says. “I can see why my dear uncle was so consumed. It was originally titledPortrait of a Lady Unknown. But eventually, it garnered another name.”
He doesn’t say the name.
He’s waiting for me or Jude to ask, which is obnoxious.
And yet, I can’t help but take the bait.
“What was it?”
“Ezra’s Obsession.” His icy blue eyes dance as he prowls toward us. “Last night, it became obvious my dear cousin needed an assist. He couldn’t stopstaring. But he wouldn’t do anything about it, either. And I thought, I know just the thing that will help.”
Tension radiates off Jude in waves.
I look from him to the portrait to Rafe, who’s drawn so close, he’s like a taunting devil in my ear.
“Who was this woman?” he asks, sliding one hand over Jude’s shoulder, his other over mine. “And why does she look exactly like you? It’s quite a mystery, isn’t it? I found your podcast, Selah. I know how much you love mysteries. Perhaps the two of you can solve this one together.”
10
HATRED ALL THE WAY DOWN
“Any information about a family painting would be in the personal archives,” Jude says.
Our footsteps echo as I follow him further into the library, toward a life-sized portrait of Amos and Ida Vandenberg hanging over a commanding fireplace. On either side, spiraling staircases climb to balconies above. Overhead, angelic frescoes decorate the ceiling. Not the kind familiar to the Sistine Chapel—all soft pastels and cotton-candy clouds. These are dark. And moody. An underworld caught in a moment of divine reckoning.
I should be awestruck. This is the Vandenberg library, after all. The crown jewel of the west wing. But all I can think about is that portrait.
Rafe might be a royal jerk. A smarmy creep. But he wasn’t wrong. Ezra Vandenberg paintedmyface hundreds of years before I was born. This isn’t just a fascinating mystery. It’s a fascinating mystery involvingme.
