“Seriously?” Izzy shudders. “How can you keep thinking about serial killers after what happened last night?”
“I just…I need to try to get to the bottom of things now that I’ve started, I suppose.”
“But it was so long ago, Fliss. And what if there is something to this curse? Between what happened to Professor Williams and to Helen and then the storm stopping your dad from gettinghome…” She flicks through the channels, falling silent for a few seconds. “I just don’t know if you should be stirring it up anymore. It’s like the painting is angry or something.”
“I keep thinking about poor Helen’s family,” I say, brushing past her comments about the curse. There are only so many times I can tell her it’s not real, and I really don’t want this to end in an argument. “They must be in hell right now, but at least the police will be trying to figure out who did that to her and they could actually find her killer. But the women who were murdered in 1911 have never been identified, no one’s ever proved who their killer was, and it’s so sad! If I can figure out who they were, at least I can give them their names back.”
“Okay, I can see that would be a noble thing to do. So you think that a serial killer—”
“BBK,” I interrupt. “He was mentioned in one of the newspaper articles.”
“Please don’t tell me what BBK stands for,” Izzy warns, giving me a sidelong glance. “You think this BBK is the same person who painted The Four, but you can’t find any useful information. What’s the point in looking up either of them again? If you want to name the victims, that’s who you should start with.”
“You’re right,” I mutter, annoyed at myself that I didn’t think to do that earlier. I was so stuck on the self-portrait appearing that my mind immediately wanted to figure out whohewas. I start typing furiously as Izzy flicks through a streaming service on the TV. “You know, for someone who hates true crime, you make some good points.”
“Not the compliment you think it is.” Izzy sighs, finallysettling on an episode ofFriendsthat we’ve watched a dozen times.
I scroll through search results for ten minutes. “There’s not much on the victims, either. It’s all so vague,” I say eventually. “Maybe I need to find some old newspapers or something.”
“Come on, you’ll be at it all night if you start deep diving now. You need a break. You can start again tomorrow.”
“Sorry,” I say. I know she’s right. “Thanks, though, that was helpful. I know you don’t like all this stuff.”
“It’s just so scary, Fliss. What we saw yesterday…no one should ever see anything like that. Ever. And the fact that we did is going to have me in therapy for a long time when I get home, but you…” She pauses, and I know she’s looking for the kindest way to voice her worries, but my face flames red with shame anyway. “You’re acting like it’s normal. Like it’s something that happens every day and we should just look at it objectively.”
“I’m not,” I argue weakly, even though I know that’s exactly what I’m doing. “I know what happened was horrendous, and I promise I really do understand that, but what happened with Helen is out of our hands. I feel like I can at least help someone this way. You go to therapy, and I’ll do this.” I gesture at the laptop.
“Well, for now you can watch the episode where Ross gets a spray tan.” Izzy looks pointedly at the laptop. “And maybe delete your browser history or the police will never give us our phonesback.”
“Good idea,” I say, silently vowing not to look up serial killers on Dad’s laptop again.
SIXTEEN
“I still don’t see whyyou’re ditching this morning. Performance poetry is practically writing!” Izzy grumbles as we walk toward campus.
It’s still hot out, but the sky has turned weirdly gray, and it’s drizzly, the air sticky beneath our shared umbrella. The hems of my jeans grow heavy with the rainwater they’re soaking up, and I’m half tempted to go home and change.
“Iz, I’m not completely ditching. I’m still going to be working on my project,” I say, though I want to tell her performance poetry is exactly why I’ve decided to skip the morning session. “I just think the library is the best place to help with my research. That ancient desktop in the classroom is useless. I’ve already emailed Ramona and she was cool with it.”
“Fine,” she says, pushing her painted red lips into a pout. “You don’t even want to come so you can spend more time with Noah?” she adds, her voice sly.
“No.” Yes. Maybe. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I saw how you were laughing together yesterday.” Izzy smiles. “He seems like a good guy, doesn’t he?”
“He does.” We pause as we reach the front of the Hurst Building. “Have fun.”
“You want to keep the umbrella?” Izzy asks. I tip it to the side to check, but the rain has mostly stopped and there’s a silver lining to the clouds, suggesting the sun is attempting to break through.
“No, you keep it in case I end up staying over lunch. The library’s only there.” I point at the far side of the quad, to a beautiful structure next to the Clarendon Building. “Text me when you’re done.”
“Yay for phones.”
I hand her the umbrella, and we don’t mention the fright we got when the cop knocked on the door first thing this morning with our cell phones, let alone our red faces when he saw the selection of furniture we’d piled in front of the door. All that talk of serial killers and curses had us freaked out as soon as we turned off the lights, so we barricaded ourselves in. I briefly wondered why we hadn’t thought of it on Monday night, but we were obviously in too much shock to do much of anything.
I cut straight across the green, regretting it immediately as the rain soaks further up the back of my jeans. Stupid flares.
I reach Blackwood Library and push open the heavy door, ears filling with muffled silence as I enter. I go to the help desk and request a temporary reader pass, then make a beeline for the bank of computers. I settle at one on the far side, press the power button and then empty the contents of my tote bag while I wait for the log-in screen to load. I open the notebook at a clean double page and draw four rough columns like the ones onthe Izzy-dubbed “murder board” in my room, the blue pen lines wobblier than I’d like. I sit back and think about the information I want to commit to paper. I focus and start a list that I know will make very little sense to anyone but me.
