“Izzy, you have to let that go.” I bristle, squaring my shoulders. “It’s more likely that someone in Blackwood is doing this than that a spooky story has come to life.”
“Well, do you have anyactualevidence?”
“I have Jen’s necklace,” I counter. “They might be able to find DNA on that.”
“That will just prove someone touched the necklace. It doesn’t back up your claim that there’s a copycat killer.” Izzy holds out her phone, and it’s open to a Deddit page. “I’ve been doing some of my own research. I know you don’t believe in the paranormal, but since you found that painting, weird things have been happening all around us, you can’t deny that. I know you’d rather put them down to something rational, something you can pick apart and explain, but knowing what we do about the blood and hair, and now the tarot, I really think it was ritualistic.” I take her phone and scan the information.
“Necromancy? What, like raising the dead? You think there’s aghostout there killing people?”
“I listened to your theory,” Izzy says, her voice steely, “so the least you can do is listen to mine. That day in the library, when you were looking up rituals, you were on this page! Did you even read it properly?”
“Only the bit at the top,” I admit, scrolling further down as words like “cursed,” “tormented” and “trapped souls” jump out at me. I sigh and give her the phone back, sitting next to her on the bed. “Explain.”
“I think the artist was doing a ritual to become immortal. Remember when I was talking to Alessandra about this specific deck being named after two men, one of them being Arthur Waite? Well, he was this rich occultist who was born in Brooklyn, and if the artist had his hands on these tarot cards back in 1911,he must have known someone who ran in the same circles as Waite, because they were only printed in 1909 and there weren’t that many original copies in circulation then.”
“So you at least agree that the cards are connected?” I ask.
“Maybe, but it’s the link with Waite I’m interested in. He was also a writer, and he wrote something calledThe Book of Ceremonial Magic, which was originally namedThe Book of Black Magic and of Pacts. It was a study of all these old grimoires, and some of them had immortality spells in them. Loads of it was blood magic, Fliss! When we spoke in the library, we talked about how the painter could have been physically ill. Well, what if he was so sick he performed a ritual in the hopes of recovering? What if itworkedand some part of him stayed alive in the canvas?”
“You can’t be serious,” I say weakly.
“Didn’t you say that you hurt your hand when the self-portrait fell off the wall? What if your blood accidentally reactivated the spell and let him out?”
“Jesus!” I jump off the bed and face her in disbelief. “You told me I was losing it, but listen to yourself! This isn’t some badly scripted horror movie, it’s real life!” I grab my pillow and yank clean pajamas from the top drawer of my dresser, then make a show of taking the tarot deck as she sits in silence. She’s not even arguing with me now. “You stay in here and look up curses. I’m sleeping in the living room.”
“Whatever, Fliss. You clearly can’t handle that there might be an explanation other than yours!” Izzy shouts.
I stomp down the hallway to the living room and throw my pillow and pajamas onto the sofa. I grab my notebook and go tothe coatrack, where I slide it into the wide inside pocket of my denim jacket, along with the cards. As soon as Dad gets home, we’re going to the police; I don’t care what Izzy says. I head back and look at the sofa in defeat. I should have grabbed the spare duvet before I stormed out.
I’m arranging the thin blanket when I’m interrupted by banging noises in the kitchen. I walk over to the door in time to see Izzy kneeling in front of the cupboard under the sink, her head partially inside as she clanks spray bottles and tubs around.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m stopping this,” she says, emerging with a dry dishcloth in her hand.
“By cleaning?” My face scrunches in confusion. Izzy shakes her head, grabs a bottle and stands up.
“No, I’m going to do what someone should have done a long time ago.” She puts the items on the kitchen table and starts pulling open drawers, looking for something else. I glance at the label on the clear plastic bottle and a shiver runs across the base of myneck.
“Izzy, what are you doing with paint thinner?”
“I read that the only way to break a curse is to destroy the object tethering it, which is that stupid self-portrait.” She makes a triumphant noise as she paws through the last drawer and brandishes something blue at me.
“So, what, you’re going to wreck it?” I go for the paint thinner, but she grabs the bottle before I can and pushes past me into the hallway. “Izzy, you can’t, my dad will be devastated. Plus, you’ll probably get arrested, and that’s your future ruined.”
“Maybe it’s worth it. If I destroy it now, nobody else will get hurt,” she explains calmly, but her eyes are wide and glassy as she slides her feet into Birkenstocks and pockets a set of keys from the side table. She clicks the blue baton in her hand and a flame jumps out from the top. It’s a kitchen lighter. “Besides, I’m not just wrecking it. I’m setting it on fire.”
My feet seem to be glued to the floor as Izzy opens the door and runs down the steps. I spring into action a split second too late to stop her, but manage to grab the door right before it closes. I shove on a pair of flip-flops, grab my jacket from the rack and hurl myself out onto the steps, the latch clicking shut behind me.
“Izzy, wait!” I spot her just ahead—she’s not running, but she is walking quickly, so I have to jog in my flip-flops to catch up with her. I shrug on the jacket, cursing when I remember my phone is still in the apartment. “Izzy!”
“I’m not slowing down!” she shouts over her shoulder, resolutely marching down the path that leads to the Heywood Gallery.
I put on a burst of speed and finally catch up with her, breathing heavily. Stupid shoes.
“Izzy, please!” I reach out and grab her T-shirt, my fingers catching the loose fabric of her sleeve. I tighten my grip until her step falters. We’re at the quad now, and she shrugs me off but stops, her breath coming quickly.
“I have to do this!” she yells, her voice cracking. “I’m so scared, Fliss. Whether it’s a copycat or a curse, this painting started it all. And look what it’s done to you! You’reobsessed!” Her grip onthe paint thinner is so tight her knuckles have turned white. She looks like a messed-up version of the Justice card, but instead of scales and a sword, she’s brandishing a bottle in one hand, dishcloth and lighter in the other. “I just want it gone. You can come with me if you need to, but I’m doing this whether you like it or not.” She marches off again, crossing the green in long strides, walking much faster than I can. I shuffle behind her, trying to keep up.
