Idid not prepare myself for Jude Vandenberg in business attire. So when he answers the door in perfectly tailored trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a slim black tie loosened at the collar, I’m a little caught off guard. It’s a distracting ensemble, one he wears entirely too well. I picture him at his prestigious boarding school, striding through an ancient stone courtyard somewhere in Europe, looking effortlessly put together while his classmates fuss with their blazers and ties.
He invites me in.
I step inside with my head on a swivel—this time, less out of obsessive curiosity and more to avoid ogling him.
“Is that it?” he asks.
I clear my throat and hand him the tome, taking excessive interest in the mahogany panelingthat runs partway up the walls. I managed to smuggle the book out of Evermore inside my backpack while Maggie was upstairs in her office, clacking away on her typewriter.
Jude takes the book in both hands. “Tulane donated this?”
“In 1995, according to Maggie.”
The date isn’t lost on either of us.
It’s the year the Vandenberg four vanished.
He slides his thumb over the lock. “Let’s go find him.”
“What?”
“He might know where the key is.”
Protest bubbles up my throat. I have no idea how acquainted Mr. Denis Tulane and Maggie are. For all I know, they talk on a regular basis. What if he mentions the book being here, with me?
But Jude isn’t asking permission.
Our footsteps echo as I follow him into the west wing corridor. Towering lancet windows line the exterior wall. The waning daylight cuts through their narrow panes, creating bands of light and dark along the marble floor. They rise up the opposite wall, where statues stand inside arched alcoves, half bathed in gold, half swallowed in shadow.
Here in the Vandenberg manor, even the hallways are extraordinary.
“I think he’s in the kitchens,” Jude says as we turn a corner.
I glimpse a regal sitting room through a set ofopened doors to my left. We pass a set of closed doors to our right before reaching the dining hall.
My skin erupts in goosebumps.
Here it is.
The scene of the crime.
The room where it happened.
I stand on the threshold, taking it all in—a massive table with throne-like chairs, a fireplace at the far end, French doors that open to a terrace, and windows on either side. They aren’t narrow and pointed like the ones in the hallway. These are wide and arched, with an open view of the back lawn, where golden pink sky melts into lilac purple. The house casts a wide shadow, turning the orchard into a darkening sprawl of tangled branches and overgrown grass. I spot Dad near the far edge, a lone figure moving methodically, his pruning shears flashing in the fading light.
“Are you coming?” Jude asks.
But I can’t answer.
I can’t move.
My feet are stuck in the entryway.
I’ve studied the investigation so thoroughly, pored over every detail I could get my hands on, it’s almost as if that thirty-year-old scene unfolds before me now. The family sitting down to dinner. Perhaps a terse conversation over Lily’s most recent rebellion, plates and silverware clinking. Then, something …horrible. Maureen calls for help, but it’s too late. There’s panic and chaos andpleading as the horrible, mysterious something descends.
“Selah?”
I blink several times, my attention returning to the present moment. I focus on Jude, standing there with Maggie’s tome in hand.
