“Lucian.Reuben.Frank.Thomas,” I read.
Jude looks at me.
“The tip your grandfather gave to the police. He said to look into a cousin namedThomas,Reuben,orFrank.” I point to each name in turn, because here they are.
Thomas, Reuben, and Frank. Vandenberg men on Raphael’s side of the family. I want to park here, discuss this, but Jude has already moved on, his gaze fixed on another.
Marcus Vandenberg, of the eighth generation. Born, 1966 in Philadelphia. There’s nothing about either of his marriages—not to Jude’s mother, or Isabel after her. Enoch must have passed away before Marcus’s first marriage, but after the disappearance of John, Maureen, Simon, and Lily, because their informationisrecorded.
Presumed dead: 1995.
Stevie Knicks stops singing.
Her voice had been unobtrusive in the background. Now, there’s nothing but the soft crackle of the needle as it drags through a vacant groove, along with the creaks and groans of a house too big to settle.
“We should get back to looking for the key,” Jude says, leaving the family tree behind, stretched wide betweenThe Great GatsbyandThe Maltese Falcon.
He opens a different trunk.
As discreetly as possible, I snap a picture with my phone. I can’t help myself. I have to show Twig.
We search for an hour more before I receive a text message from Dad.
School night, kiddo. Whatever you’re doing, time to wrap it up.
The key is nowhere to be found.
Jude grabs a bobby pin from one of the apothecary drawers and, despite my objections, tries to pick the book’s lock. When the lock refuses to budge and he suggests we bust it open, I put my foot down. “I have to return this in the same condition or Maggie will murder me in my sleep.”
“Don’t you want to see what’s inside?”
“Of course, but not if it means incurring Maggie’s wrath.” Or losing my job. I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, thinking quickly. Perhaps, a little desperately. Our lunchtime conversation, when Jude all but ordered a cease and desist on our search for answers, has me spooked. Whatever headspace he was in then, I don’t want him going back there now.
“What about the sketch of Molly?” I ask.
“What about it?” he replies.
“She has to be connected to the portrait in some way, right? Why else would the same symbol be on both of them? We have her name, and a general time period of when she lived.” If Ezra sketched her, she had to have been alive whenEzra was alive. “If anyone would know anything about a young woman named Molly living here in the 1700s, it’ll be Maggie. And maybe, if we find Molly, we’ll learn more about the portrait, too.”
I walk in the door withThe Great Gatsbyin hand, on loan from Jude. I close the screen door quietly behind me and muffle a sneeze. On the walk home, I was struck by a string of them. Perhaps wearing that dusty cloak for so long wasn’t the smartest idea.
Inside, Dad is stretched out on the recliner. ASeinfeldrerun plays on the television. There’s an open can of Coors Light on the end table. I can tell from here that he’s fallen asleep. A fairly common occurrence. All that manual labor makes him tired, but he refuses to retire to his room when I’m still out. His bed—he likes to say—is only for sleeping when he knows I’m in mine.
I tiptoe closer.
His dark hair is still damp from his shower. His skin is a deep tan from days spent outdoors, grooved with deeper lines than most guys his age thanks to all that sun. And probably my mother. My attention moves to his left hand. He still wears his wedding ring, even all these years later. I pick up the beer can, which is half-full. He only ever has one, and usually forgets to finish it. I dump the remainder down the drain and put the can in therecycling, then grab a blanket off the couch. I’m just about to cover him when I’m overcome by another sneeze—so suddenly, I have no chance to muffle it.
And I am a notoriously loud sneezer.
Dad opens his eyes.
“Hey,” he says in a crackly voice. “How was your day?”
“Good. Yours?”
“My day was good.”
We nod in unison, as if to sayglad to hear it.
