This past week hasn’t gone at all as I hoped or expected it might. I thought his invitation to the ball would be a turning point in our relationship. Instead, he’s erected an invisible wall between us and I have no idea how to knock it down.
On Monday, Dad drove me to school. Jude didn’t show up until lunch, and for a second, I thought maybe he had norovirus, as well. He was pale, with shadows under his eyes. He insisted he felt fine; he just didn’t sleep well. He avoided eye contact when he said it, a pattern that would continue for the remainder of the week. A pattern that would have led me to confront Rafe if he were here. Was he following through with histhreat at the quarry? Was he tormenting Jude in secret?
Jude has certainly looked tormented.
But of course, this could have nothing to do with Rafe, because Rafe is gone.
I give my head a rattle and flex my fingers over the keyboard of my Chromebook. “Focus, Selah. Focus.”
Themes ofThe Scarlet Letter.
Guilt. Hypocrisy.
I’m overcome by another yawn. I cover it with my fist and set my elbow on the desk.
Isolation. The nature of evil.
I rest my chin in my hand, eyelids drooping.
Sin … and judgement.
The sound of laughter echoes down the hallway. I chase after it, the tail end of a night gown whipping around the corner and out of sight.
“Seeeelaaaah.”
The whisper floats through the dim light of the corridor. The voice is achingly familiar.
I lift my foot to take a step when the voice speaks in my ear, “Come find me.”
My chin slides off my hand.
My head jerks up.
My eyes fly open.
The cursor blinks on the screen.
And light flashes in the periphery of my vision.
It comes from the manor.
A window is illuminated on the second floor.
Only nobody’s home.
At least, nobody’s supposed to be home.
I lean closer, trying to place its location when a figure steps into the frame. Slowly, the shadow turns and stares.
I duck, heart pounding in my ears.
When I’m brave enough to look again, the window is dark. Like I imagined the whole thing.
The next morning, I knock on Jude’s front door. Tulane answers. He insists Master Jude is still sleeping, but halfway through the excuse, Master Jude descends one of the staircases. To Tulane’s credit, Jude is still dressed in sleep wear—gray henley, flannel pajama pants, a matching robe, and old money slippers.
Bowing, Tulane excuses himself, leaving us alone in the giant foyer. Me, just outside the doors. Jude, still on the stairs.
“Is Rafe back?” I ask.
