“No,” Maggie replies.
“I think it’s probably something religious. Lots of old groups used to carve their beliefs into things. Cults. The Knights Templar.”
Maggie blinks at him. “Did you just lump the Knights Templar and cults into the same category?”
“The entire lot of them were executed on Friday the Thirteenth. That sounds pretty cultish to me.”
Maggie’s thin frame puffs with indignation.She’s so wound up, she doesn’t notice the mischievous wink Walt shoots at me and Twig. “Walter Jensen,” she scolds. “You know very well the Knights Templar were not killed on Friday the Thirteenth! They were arrested.”
Poe meows and weaves figure eights around Twig’s ankles.
He sneezes.
I take out my phone and snap a picture of the dusty tome while Maggie and Walt argue. The next time I see Jude, I’m going to show this to him. And maybe together, we can find the key.
12
WHAT MAGGIE DOESN’T KNOW
Idon’t receive an early morning wake up call from Jude on Sunday. Just Dad, poking his head inside my bedroom a little after eight to make sure I’m awake for church.
For the past seven years, we’ve gone to St. Oswald’s nine o’clock service. Twig’s family goes, too, and while he finds it a touch boring, more of an obligation than a spiritual practice, I’ve always enjoyed church. Especially St. Oswald’s, with its natural lighting, wood-beamed ceilings, and free-standing panels of stained glass. I love the tradition, the liturgy, the stories.
It’s a place where the uncanny permeates everything. From that giant wooden cross on the altar, to the eucharist placed in our hands, and the Apostles’ Creed we recite afterward. The Holy Trinity. Hypostatic Union. The very nature of God—omnipresent and omniscient? I love that Pastor Tim doesn’t scramble about, trying to make sense of these grand mysteries. He embraces them. Calls them sacred, even. Then spends the rest of the hour encouraging us to love and serve.
Today, however, I can’t quite settle into it. I keep thinking about Jude and the look on his face when I told him Rafe tried kissing me in the graveyard. If ever I could take back my words, those would be the ones.
When the service ends, Twig and I run errands for Mrs. Calloway, who’s been the Volunteer & Logistic Coordinator on the Phoenix Parade committee ever since I moved here seven years ago. Over the course of those seven years, Twig and I have become her unofficial errand-runners. We drop off flyers at local businesses for sponsorships and donations. We post signs soliciting volunteers. We take t-shirt inventory for float crews and parade day helpers. And when we’re done, we explore more of the Vandenberg grounds.
Dad lets us take his Bronco around the eastern perimeter, where twisted trees cast long shadows over the dirt road. In the northeast corner, we discover a motor house—a more recent addition, by the looks of it, with steel garage doors and clerestory windows that let in the light but protect privacy. John Vandenberg was a known auto enthusiast, so I can only imagine what kind of collection might be hidden inside.
We don’t run into Jude or Rafe, but we do havean epic encounter with some turkeys. A rustle of leaves stops us both in our tracks. We tilt our heads toward the sound like a satellite dish honing in. Then comes a cluster of strange, guttural noises. Twig silently pulls out his phone and starts recording.
We creep forward, thrumming with excitement, only for a flock of wild turkeys to explode into flight, flapping and screeching like feathered banshees.
After recovering from our near heart attacks, we fall into hysterical laughter and play the video on repeat. We’d been so convinced we were on the cusp of paranormal discovery, Twig had been ready to fetch our proton pack.
For the next ten minutes, we take turns concocting fake episode titles for the podcast.
Paranormal Poultry.
Cryptids with Tail Feathers.
Fowl Play in the Fog.
Sasquawk: The Mystery Screech of Foggy Hollow.
Eventually, Twig ditches me for his robotics team. I spend the rest of the evening trying really hard not to think about Jude, but failing miserably. What is he doing inside that giant manor? Poring over more tomes, researching by himself? And if so, has he found any more references to the portrait? We parted ways mid-scene, loose ends galore twisting in the wind. I’m eager to tie some of them down.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’veworked myself into a tizzy of curiosity. I hurry into school ready to bombard him with questions, only to discover he’s playing hooky. He’s not in the hallways. He’s not in the lunchroom. And he’s not in eighth period history class, either.
That night, I curl up in my window seat and pretend to do homework. But really, I gaze out my window toward his, illuminated against the dark. Every so often, there’s the vague impression of movement, but never his outline.
Is the portrait still in his bedroom?
Has he been studying it, and by proxy, studying me?
The thought is like a space heater in my belly.
