The wind is gone.
The sun is shining.
Birds chirp.
Squirrels scamper.
A bee buzzes nearby.
I set my hands on my knees and laugh at my ridiculousness. Just like last night, I allowed my imagination to go as feral as these grounds. With a shake of my head, I turn around to see what I’ve stumbled upon.
Headstones.
My breath goes still. I stare, open-mouthed, unable to believe what I’m seeing. This isn’t just aclearing. This is a graveyard, with fourteen, nofifteenheadstones.
I creep toward the nearest one.
Daniel Vandenberg, 1912 - 1993.
He died two years before John and Maureen and their teenage children vanished without a trace. I fumble for my phone and take more pictures. I turn the camera to the headstone beside Daniel’s.
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
I spin around.
A young man leans against a tree with one dark eyebrow quirked in amusement.
My pulse stutters. I have no idea how long he’s been watching.
5
THE FAMILY GRAVEYARD
He’s the kind of person you might see on the cover of a magazine, with flawless bone structure and eyes so blue they match his oxford shirt. His dark hair is thick and neatly styled, with one rebellious lock falling over his quirked eyebrow. But even that looks intentional, as though his imperfections have been meticulously arranged. The corner of his mouth curls into a crooked grin as he stands there at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree like an exquisite painting, every stroke designed to draw the eye exactly where he wants it to go.
I’m so caught off guard by his presence, it takes me a minute to register how intensely he’s staring. At some point, his languid demeanor has shifted, only I’m not sure when. I’m not even sure how. He hasn’t moved. He’s still leaning against a tree, hisattention traveling upward—from my second-hand running shoes to my wind-tousled hair—with such fervor, my cheeks turn warm.
I tuck a loose strand behind my ear, trying to get my voice unstuck, when he steals my line.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Who areyou?” I retort. This is a private estate. Agatedestate. People aren’t allowed to just come inside.
He smirks impishly. “My name’s Rafe.”
“Well,Rafe, this is private property.”
“Vandenberg,” he finishes.
The surname hits me between the eyes.
Vandenberg.
I blink several times. “But I—I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“That would be my cousin, Jude. And his mother. Or rather, his stepmother.” He leans forward slightly, and says in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I don’t think he’s very fond of her.”
A cousin.
