Rafe Vandenberg stands beside the fireplace, shaking his head sorrowfully. “What a shame,” he says with a tut, and while the words are true, there’s a gleam in his eye that make them more sinister than somber.
I yank free and race out the door into the bright, blinding sun. It bathes the front lawn of the Vandenberg Estate in white.
A gust of wind blows through the trees.
“Seeelaaaah.”
The breathy whisper spins me around.
And then, right by my ear …
“Come find me.”
I jerk upright in bed, lungs heaving, pajama top damp with sweat as my heart beats against my sternum.
Thud, thud, thud.
Blurry sunlight pours through the window and spills across the hardwood floor. I swipe wisps of hair from my face. I haven’t heard my mother in eight years and yet somehow I’m positive, it washervoice in my dream.
Thud, thud, thud.
This time, it isn’t my heart.
It’s the door.
I climb out of bed on wobbly legs, grab my robe, stuff my arms inside the sleeves one after the other, and pull my hair loose. As I head down the stairs, I gather it into something less like a bird’s nest. The digital clock on our stove reads 8:03 a.m.
Thud, thud, thud.
“I’m coming,” I mutter, cinching my robe tight.
I’m not sure who to expect. An impatient delivery man with a postal emergency? Whoever it is should know that 8:03 a.m. on a Saturday morning is an ungodly hour to be pounding on front doors. I yank mine open with a hefty dose of exasperation.
It isn’t a delivery man.
It’s Jude Vandenberg, his back outlined by the morning sun. At the sound of the door opening, he turns around, and one thing is crystal clear.
He does not look amused.
“How long have you known Rafe?” he asks.
The question spins me around.
I’m having a hard enough time processing his presence, never mind the strange inquiry. I pull my robe tighter, very aware that I haven’t brushed my teeth. Or gone to the bathroom. Or put on a bra.
He pulls at his jaw. “Honestly, I don’t get the joke, but I feel like I should warn you to stay away from him.”
I set my hand on the doorknob. I don’t love the feeling of confusion, and right now I’m gobsmacked with it. “What are you talking about?”
“The portrait.”
“What portrait?”
His brow puckers.
I lift mine impatiently.
“You don’t know?” he asks.
