Jude looks down at it, as though only now realizing he holds a book at all, then gets right to the point.
He found another reference to the portrait.
“Is it the revelation?” I ask.
“No,” he says, glancing past me—toward Twig and my dad, who are watching us with varying degrees of wariness.
We decide to take our conversation inside The Cobbler, a retro diner with the best pie in town. It’s located on the square, between Hallowed Grounds Cafe and Flicker and Foam Emporium—too long of a walk from St. Oswald’s. And so, for the first time ever, I climb into Jude’s BMW.
He’s quiet on the drive, his hands tense on the wheel.
He opens the door for me at the diner, and I’m glad to step inside where it is warm and familiar. There’s a long counter on one side and a row of red leather booths on the other, with black and white checkered flooring in between.
A waitress named Gemma stands behind the counter chatting with the cook through the service-window. When her eyes land on Jude, they follow him like a hungry cat. We head down the aisle, toward the booth farthest in the back, next tothe jukebox and a hidden hallway leading to the restrooms.
Gemma wastes no time.
She joins us, jutting her hip and clicking her pen as she asks what we’ll have to drink, her drawl thicker than usual. I order a ginger ale. She gives me a clippedmm-hmmbefore turning her ravenous eyes upon Jude. I resist the urge to roll my own. Gemma graduated from Foggy Hollow High two years ago, and I’m almost positive she lives with her boyfriend.
He orders a coffee without giving her a second glance.
“I went to the cemetery this morning,” he says once she leaves, grabbing a menu from behind the condiment caddy.
“The town cemetery?”
He nods. “I was looking for the Ludwigs.”
“And?”
“I found all of them but Molly.”
“Do you think she moved away?”
“If she got married, maybe. But why wouldn’t she or her husband be mentioned in her father’s obituary?”
“Maybe they left the faith, and he disowned them.” Based on the small amount of research we did on Friday, he seemed like the sort of guy who would do such a thing. “Or maybe she got pregnant out of wedlock. Or committed some other sin he considered egregious.”
“Like Elijah?”
The question hits hard.
I stare back at him, considering the possibility when Gemma returns with our drinks. Jude doesn’t order any food. I think about doing the same—my appetite still spotty—but then I’m struck by a sudden and profound craving for apple pie.
After I order, Gemma lingers. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat? You strike me as a pecan pie kinda guy … rich, smooth, just the right amount of sweet. I could bring you a slice. Or I could bring you something better.”
This time Idoroll my eyes. Her innuendo is as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“I’m not interested,” Jude says, his dismissive tone filled with innuendo of his own.
He’s not talking about pie.
Gemma blushes, but gets the point.
She leaves with a pout.
I take a drink of my ginger ale, not entirely sure what to do about his theory regarding Molly Ludwig. A reverend’s daughter committing suicide in the eighteenth century? Surely that would be an incredibly rare occurrence. But then I have a memory. A very unsettling memory. Because it’s not really a memory at all, but a dream I recorded in my journal. A young woman hanging from a rope, wearing a yellow dress with a hoop skirt and a matching petticoat, her long hair in ringlets.
Just like Molly in Ezra’s sketch.
