“Looks like it.” Izzy tries to hide a frown as Ford comes back and Scarlett smiles at him.
“Come on,” I say, leading them out of the studio. “That place with the lavender lattes had the most amazing-looking sandwiches.”
The grass that covers the green outside the Clarendon Building is springy beneath me, the soft, mossy kind that you can get really comfy on. I sit cross-legged, grateful I threw on trousers this morning, and unwrap a pesto, mozzarella and tomato baguette that makes my mouth water. The others settle around me, and I watch Scarlett take a huge bite from a pastrami sandwich and once again reassess my first impression of her. I totally had her pegged as a vegetarian.
I adjust my gaze to look at the Heywood Gallery behind her, its glass façade twinkling innocently in the sunlight. There’s no crime scene tape or anything, just a handwritten sign tacked to the front doors. I wonder if they cleared everything away this morning, or if they’re investigating in the locker room. I can’t imagine the university wants to advertise what happened more than it already has been.
“How long’s the gallery closed for?” Ford asks from across the circle, following my gaze. “I mean it is, right?”
“I don’t have a clue,” I admit, feeling in my bag for my iPad. “My dad will know, but I need to connect to Wi-Fi to text him—I probably should have thought to do that in class. We still don’t have our phones.”
“You can use the hot spot on my phone,” Noah offers,digging a smartphone that has seen better days from his pocket and swiping the screen. He places it on the grass in front of me. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I take a bite of my sandwich and carefully type in the hotspot password on my tablet.
As soon as I hit enter, the screen fills with notifications, so I scroll through them. Some are from my mum and Izzy’s, both checking in, but most are from Dad. “Oh, great.”
“What’s up?” Izzy asks, leaning over to look. I tilt the screen so she can read. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I type a quick reply and put down the tablet, my appetite making a quick exit. “It could be days until they get homenow.”
“Is that your dad? Where is he, again?” Noah asks.
“In the Maldives on his honeymoon. It took like twelve hours to fly to Malé and then they had to get a speedboat to the resort, so they were traveling all of yesterday. He was planning to come straight back after what happened last night, but a tropical storm has hit and now there are no boats or planes coming or going.” I glance at the iPad. “Storm Marco, apparently. Did you guys hear anything about it?”
“I saw something this morning. They used the word ‘unprecedented,’ which is never good,” Noah says before throwing the last bit of baguette in his mouth. How do boys eat so fast?
“Spooky,” Scarlett says, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully. I wait for her to elaborate but nothing comes.
“Spooky?” Ford repeats slowly. He looks tired, and I wonder what’s on his mind. He looked like he was struggling with thatpicture today and I wonder if his grandad is still alive—painting a loved one who isn’t around anymore would bring up a lot of emotions. I think he achieved even less than I did.
“You know, the curse.” Scarlett wipes her fingers on a napkin as she talks. “From the portrait. It obviously makes bad things happen.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you? I was only joking yesterday,” Noah says. I want to voice my agreement, but an icy shiver slides down my back despite the sunshine. “A painting didn’t cause what happened last night. A person did.”
“It does have a bad reputation, though,” Izzy says carefully, avoiding my gaze. “Look at Professor Williams! He was hiding it in his house for who knows how long, and you know what happened to him.”
“I don’t,” Ford says, folding up his wrapper and leaning back on both arms. “Enlighten us.”
“He was grieving, that’s all,” I say, before Izzy can chime in with her version of events. “He’d just had to nurse his dying wife, and he must have had a heart condition he wasn’t aware of.”
“He had a heart attack?” Ford asks, his face softening. Something flits across it, but it’s gone before anyone else can see it.
“Yeah,” Noah says, and I realize he would have known Professor Williams better than any of us. “We all knew him and his wife from around Blackwood. They were really nice. After she died, he lived on his own, so when he passed away over the Easter break, no one realized for a while.” Izzy winces—I didn’t tell her that part.
“I’m sorry, that’s really sad,” Scarlett says, admiring a ring onher finger. It’s one of many that she’s wearing, a gold band inlaid with enamel flowers set into a blue background. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
“You didn’t,” I reassure her, and take the opportunity to change the subject. “I like your ring. It’s so pretty.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, holding her hand up in the sun. “I liberated it from a garage sale. It’s cloisonné, almost a hundred years old, apparently.” I ponder her use of the term “liberated.” As in, she stole it? I try and fail to envision Scarlett as a shoplifter. No, she must think she saved it from mundanity when she bought it. “I got this one there too.” She points at another gold ring, this one set with a round black stone. “It’s obsidian. For protection.” I think of Kim and wonder if she left some obsidian at home. It might not hurt to have it around after recent events.
“Hold that pose,” Noah says, lifting his camera from round his neck.
With her flowing vintage kimono and the tiny plaits at the front of her long blond hair, Scarlett looks like she’s time-traveled straight from the sixties and landed in the middle of the twenty-first century. I gather up everyone’s wrappers as Noah snaps away and stand up so I can put our rubbish in the bin.
I walk back slowly, stretching my back as I watch the group in the sunshine. Noah is directing Scarlett, who is a natural in front of the camera, and Izzy and Ford seem to be locked in serious conversation. I wonder if they’re talking about last night. Despite how well I thought I was dealing with everything, the whole mention of a curse has freaked me out. I’m not superstitious,and I know on a very rational level that last night was nothing but a terrible tragedy, that Dad’s journey home has been delayed by a completely natural storm. That there is no such thing as a curse.
So why can’t I stop thinking about it?
