He runs his hand over the back of his hair, which is tousled from sleep. “Not that I know of.”
“You went to the fundraiser last night?”
“Yes,” he says, drawing out the word, the tail of it lilting upward so it sounds more like a question than a statement.
“And Isabel?”
“She’s the one who insisted on dragging me along.” Jude tilts his head. The shadows beneathhis eyes are worse than they’ve been all week. “Why are you asking?”
“Someone was here while you were gone. A light came on in one of the windows, and it wasn’t Tulane. I saw him leaving in his car when I was pulling in.”
Jude’s eyes narrow.
“Were there workers here? A cleaning crew, maybe?”
“No,” he says.
“Are you sure?” They’d had their fair share as of late. A revolving door of cleaners and repairmen, getting the manor in tiptop shape for the ball. The one I’m supposed to attend with Jude, who—despite what he said—very likely regrets inviting me.
I’m tired of feeling angsty about it.
With a roll of my eyes, I invite myself in. I sweep past him, up the stairs, through the upper hall, into the west wing corridor, which is lined with portraits. Vandenbergs of the past. I don’t stop until I’m standing in the doorway of a large, empty bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Jude asks, stopping beside me.
I creep inside, floorboards creaking underfoot, and come to a stop in the same spot the shadowed figure stood. I can see my bedroom window perfectly. With my light on, a person standing here would very much be able to see me sitting there, in the window seat.
I turn to Jude. “Someone was in here last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
He rubs his jaw, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing, it’s just … this was Simon’s bedroom.”
Goosebumps crawl across my skin.
Simon’s bedroom.
The moment feels as poignant as the time I first stood in the dining hall. I’m Oda Mae Brown all over again, summoning Simon’s ghost. I take a step and the floor creaks differently. Enough to make me stop, back up, and step again. The sound is decidedly altered.
Crouching down, I give the floorboard a rap with my knuckles. It sounds solid. I move to the next. It sounds solid, too. Then another, the one closest to my foot, and it doesn’t sound solid at all. It sounds hollow. I knock again to make sure, and yes, it’s definitely hollow.
With the tip of my fingers, I reach between the crack and pry the floorboard up. It lifts easily, like it’s been waiting all this time, begging to be opened.
And underneath …
“Great Scott,” I whisper, reaching inside the long, narrow compartment as Jude joins me.
We’ve uncovered a hidden stash.
The first item is a large Bible, one that looks too old to belong to Simon Vandenberg. I set it aside and pull out two items underneath—a pack of cigarettes in a black and red box that smell of clove and a half-empty bottle of Hennessy. “Looks like Lily wasn’t the only one with a rebellious streak.”
“A sixteen-year-old who drank cognac and smoked Djarums?” Jude quirks an eyebrow. “He was definitely going for a certain aesthetic.”
