“Want me to shut off the TV?” I ask.
“That’s all right. I’m gonna finish this episode, then head up to bed.”
I’m not fooled. Dad wasn’t watchingSeinfeld. He waspretendingto watchSeinfeldso he could wait up for me. He’s a good man, my dad. Quiet. Hardworking. As patient as the day is long. A walking green flag, really. I glance again at his wedding ring. In all my years, I’ve never heard him say one negative thing about Mom. And in all my memories of her, she never said one negative thing about him, either. In fact, she used to tell me he was the one thing she got right. The one thing she was proud to give me.
A really great dad.
I kiss the top of his head. “Night, Pops.”
Upstairs, I brush my teeth and wash my face. I change into an oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms, then settle into my window seat withThe Great Gatsbyin my lap, gazing at Jude’s illuminatedbedroom window when movement below catches my attention. A figure, prowling around the side of the home. I narrow my eyes, trying to get a better look, but everything is dark and foggy and another sneeze grabs hold, followed by two more.
In their wake, I’m struck by a bout of dizziness. The kind you get when you stand up too fast, only I’m not standing, and my neck is suddenly warm. I unlock the window and push it open, inviting in the crisp night air, fanning the collar of my shirt as I refocus my attention. But I find nothing.
Did I imagine it?
My phone dings with a message from Twig, asking how everything went.
I send him the picture I took of Jude’s family tree, along with a reply:
Look what we found in an old trunk!
A few seconds later, he texts back.
Twig: Frank, Reuben, and Thomas?
Me: IKR!?
I pull up the picture and zoom in on the names. A connection to the cold case, stumbledupon in a search for answers about a portrait ofme. Two confounding mysteries.
My phone dings.
Twig: Scorch mark is intense. Who got annexed?
Me: No idea.
There’s a beat of nothing, then a scrolling ellipse.
Twig: What happened in 1890?
Unsure what he’s talking about, I look at the picture. I zoom in, studying the dates—really having to focus, too, like I’m in sudden need of reading glasses. I find the date in question. 1890, listed several times over. A year of death. Whatever happened wiped out every Vandenberg alive at the time except for the author of the tree, Isaiah. Unless, of course, his scorch-mark of a father was still alive.
My phone dings.
Twig: And 1930?
I search some more and find a second shared death. This time, only two. Isaiah and his wife bothdied in 1930.
Ding.
Twig sent an image. A screen shot of a Wikipedia page. Railway accidents from the 19thcentury. To make things extra clear, he highlighted one in particular.April 1890, a train derails en route to New York, killing dozens, including several members of the prominent Vandenberg family of Foggy Hollow, WV.
Ding.
Twig: Can’t find anything about 1930.
Ding.
Twig: Selah.
