She turns to Twig. “And you’re Spencer Calloway?”
He nods.
The girls exchange an excited look. Then the taller one launches into her pitch. “We’re from Elkins. My name’s Addie and this is JoJo. We’re obsessed with your podcast, and we’d love to ask you a few questions about these new disappearances. Maybe an exclusive interview for our high school paper?”
I can tell Addie is working hard to maintain a look of sobriety. What’s happening in our town is serious and tragic, and yet she vibrates with ill-suppressed curiosity—the kind unique to unsolved mysteries.
She’s so hopeful.
So naive.
So very much like myself before all this supernatural stuff got really, really personal.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But we’ve put a moratorium on interviews.”
Addie visibly wilts.
I feel bad. I hate to say no, but as Twig just pointed out, the truth is too outrageous. Still, the idea of sending them back to Elkins empty handed doesn’t sit well. I give her an apologetic look and extend an olive branch. “I could show you the display upstairs if you wanted?”
This seems to cheer them right up. They whisper excitedly behind me, anyway.
At the top the creaky staircase, I unclasp the velvet rope from the wall hook, clip it to its post, and flip on the light.
Addie and JoJo go straight for the Vandenberg exhibit.
“Oh my gosh,” Addie whispers, pressing her hands against the glass. “There’s the drawing.”
“That is so totally creepy,” JoJo replies.
They’re referring to Lily Vandenberg’s sketch of the faceless man, one I’ve seen plenty of times. And yet, the sight of it now has something niggling in the back of my mind. It takes me a few beats before I realize what it is.
“He doesn’t have a face.”
Addie and JoJo look at me.
I didn’t mean to speak the words out loud.
A flush climbs up my neck.
Not from embarrassment, but excitement.
According to Rafe, Dr. Psycho didn’t have a face either.
“Where’s the clock?” Addie asks.
I blink. “What’s that?”
“The clock,” she says, showing me her phone. A photo of the display fills her screen. “The one that stopped after Maureen Vandenberg dialed 911.”
I lean over the exhibit.
Sure enough, the clock is gone.
40
A SECOND SKETCHPAD
Despite my determination to ignore Rafe Vandenberg, I take the drawing to him as soon as my shift ends. I don’t have a choice. If anyone can verify the identity of the faceless man, it’s him. Mr. Tulane invites me inside. I hurry up the stairs and go straight to Rafe’s bedroom. His door is open. He stands at his open armoire, buttoning his shirt from the bottom up, staring at his reflection in a mirror set inside the armoire’s door.
