Chapter Ten The Artist

CHAPTER TEN THE ARTIST

There was really only one thing to do with Nic’s hoodie. ‘This is perfect,’ Millie said when I called her the following morning to tell her about everything. ‘Use it as an excuse to go to his house and invite him to the party on Saturday!’

Because of the fight with Alex, Millie wasn’t Nic’s biggest fan, but she wasn’t a grudge holder either, and given that ‘boys will be boys’, she resolved that she could certainly ‘see potential’ in him and that he should still be invited to her house party. I had a pretty good idea of how Alex would react to Nic turning up, but Millie was adamant. Alex didn’t get to veto her guests. Especially since she had so few compared to him.

Besides, she took great interest in my pitiful romantic life, and since Nic was new to Cedar Hill and obviously in the dark about my father’s recent past, she saw him as a rare judgement-free opportunity for me to fall in love. Whether he might be bad for me or not didn’t weigh into it. It only made her more curious about him and his family, especially considering that Dom had asked her out right after the basketball tournament.

‘I’m meeting Dom at six for our date, so call me later tonight if you find out anything juicy,’ she squealed down the phone. ‘And don’t forget to take pictures if you make it inside that house. You owe it to me. I’m too young to die from curiosity.’

I decided not to tell Millie that I would not be creepily taking pictures of Nic’s house without his knowledge. The idea of inviting him to a party was already terrifying enough. What if he said no? What if he said yes and then found out about my social-pariah status when he got there? ‘Only if you find out about Dom’s scar,’ I countered instead.

‘That’s a no-brainer. Good luck today. You won’t regret it,’ she chirped before hanging up.

By the time I reached the Priestly mansion, I was a bundle of nerves. Restored to its rightful regality, the house was like something out of a fairy tale. Beneath the sun’s heavy beat, the windows were sparkling like diamonds, and without the ivy that used to slither across the walls, the entire exterior was an unblemished alabaster white.

Just how was I going to do this? Hey, thanks for lending me your hoodie. By the way, why don’t you come to Millie’s party on Saturday? It’s coincidentally my birthday too, but most people there will just ignore me because my dad’s a murderer, which technically makes me the Devil’s spawn. So, how about it, will you come? Smooth. And what if Nic wasn’t home and Luca answered instead? Hey, tell your brother to come to Millie’s on Saturday, but make sure you don’t show up because you suck. If Gino answered I could just distract him with something shiny and hope Nic would come to the door eventually.

With the hoodie draped over my arm and my thoughts spiralling into all the possible ways this could go wrong, I rang the doorbell. When I didn’t hear it echo inside the house, I decided to use the brass knocker just to be sure. I waited. I knocked again.

What now? I hadn’t come up with any brilliant ideas about what to do if nobody was there. Was I supposed to just leave the hoodie outside the door and let that be the end of it? What an anticlimax. Without thinking, I drifted towards the side of the mansion, where the driveway tapered off into a narrow path that stretched around the house.

When I reached the back, I stopped in surprise. I don’t know what I had been expecting – a tennis court or a swimming pool, maybe – but certainly not what I found. Cramped and overgrown, the yard was a far cry from the affluent facade of the house. Around the edges, clumps of weeds tangled into withered rose bushes. The grass was higher than my knees, and was a sickly grey-green colour. At the very back of the ruined garden were the remnants of a fountain with elaborate bird carvings etched into chunks of stone; and in the centre of the grass, a large wooden table balanced on three termite-eaten legs.

Behind me, double doors inlaid with stained glass panes looked out on to the yard. They were slightly ajar.

I rapped my knuckles against the glass, nudging the doors open, and peered into a sprawling kitchen. The walls and cabinets were a stark white, and the pale wood floors looked new. A black cast-iron stove reached up to a high ceiling, which was studded with spotlights.

‘Who’s there?’ A musical voice came from within, startling me from my snooping.

I hesitated. If I didn’t know the voice, the voice wouldn’t know me, and so what good would my name be?

‘It’s Sophie,’ I said after a beat.

No answer.

‘I’m just returning a hoodie.’

I opened the doors another crack. More of the kitchen filtered into my view. On the white walls were several ornately framed oil paintings. I recognized one as da Vinci’s Madonna and Child – it had been a favourite of my grandmother’s – though the others, while also religious in sentiment, were foreign to me. I stared in surprise. I had never seen artwork like this in a home before – it was almost like a gallery, or a church, and I found myself feeling intimidated by the splendour. I considered taking out my phone and sneaking a photo to show Millie after all, but the rational voice inside my head stopped me.

Cautiously, I edged inside.

In the centre of the kitchen was a marble-topped island, and beyond it was a glass table covered with several sheets of paper and scatterings of pencils. Sitting at the table was a boy. He was drawing.

‘Hello?’ I said again, though I could plainly see he knew I was there.

He looked up and his piercing blue eyes found mine immediately. I zeroed in on them, frowning, as my stomach turned to jelly. ‘Luca?’

He didn’t respond. He just put his pencil down and sat in silent contemplation, his elbows atop the table and his chin resting just behind his steepled fingers, as though he were praying.

I felt my breath catch in my throat. ‘Oh!’

It wasn’t Luca. It was the boy from the window. Just like on that very first night, his eyes grew, but this time in recognition. Set against his olive skin, they were a brilliant, startling blue. They were just like Luca’s, but something about them seemed different – warmer, perhaps.

‘I recognize you,’ he said in that pleasant, lilting voice.

I moved towards him, utterly captivated. He had Luca’s searing eyes, his golden-brown skin and his jet-black hair. But while Luca’s hair was shaggy, falling in strands across his eyes, this boy’s hair was short and clean-cut, combed away from his face entirely, revealing a pointed chin and severe cheekbones. He was thinner, too, and slightly hunched. I couldn’t tell if he was older than me – he didn’t seem it, but his likeness to Luca made me think maybe he was.

‘You were watching my house last week.’ He lowered his hands and rested them on the table in front of him, but his eyes remained hooded with caution.

I stopped when I reached the table, hovering uncertainly. I realized then why he hadn’t moved towards me, and why he hadn’t played in the basketball tournament last week. He was in a wheelchair.

‘Yes, that was me,’ I replied. I tried not to stare, but he was so like Luca, and yet so unlike him, it was hard to reconcile. ‘I was just curious.’

‘I believe you fell rather spectacularly just afterwards,’ he added, but not unkindly.

‘That’s a point of contention. Your brother actually crashed into me.’

He smiled, and it made him seem suddenly very young and boyish. ‘I hope he apologized.’

‘He did – eventually.’ I shuffled a little closer until my hands brushed against the edge of the table. ‘You’re so like him.’ It was those eyes – they were so unnatural. That they should exist in two different faces seemed unbelievable to me. ‘Luca, that is. I don’t mean to stare, but it’s really incredible.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we may be twins, but we’re not the same.’

I was only partly surprised by the revelation. Even though their similarities were startling, all of the Priestly brothers shared the same features, and this boy had an aura of innocence that Luca did not. He seemed sweet, and unblemished by whatever had made his twin such a resounding ass to be around.

‘For one thing, he can’t manoeuvre a wheelchair half as well as I can.’ He tapped the wheel beneath his right hand and released a wry smile. ‘And for another, I’m smarter.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ He seemed appeased by my agreement. ‘I’m Sophie. But I said that already.’

‘Hello, Sophie.’ His smile was a beautiful sight. To think, Luca had the potential to look and act like this and yet he chose not to. ‘I’m Valentino.’

He shifted forwards and picked up his pencil again, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb. My attention followed it, and I gasped as the sheets of paper came to life below me. I tried to study them all at once. ‘These are incredible.’

Valentino waved his hand over the sketches with a casualness that seemed out of place. They were stunning, and surely he could see that. And more than that, he should be owning his talent and agreeing with me. I used to think my father was good because he could draw Mickey Mouse, but this artwork was on a whole other level.

I raked my eyes over the drawings and stopped when I found a side profile of Nic. Drawn in pencil, careful shadows swooped across his creased brow line and gathered beneath his cheekbones. His lips were parted in concentration, his hair twisting in strands below his ear as he looked ahead, focusing on something out of frame.

‘You make it seem so real.’

I glanced at Valentino. He was chewing on his lip, thinking. ‘I look for the qualities that aren’t always apparent at first,’ he said. ‘The ones that define part of who we are and how we really feel deep down. I try to look below the surface.’

His voice started to bubble with passion, and his hands took on a life of their own. ‘This life is so complex that we rarely get to be the people we are truly meant to be. Instead, we wear masks and put up walls to keep from dealing with the fear of rejection, the feeling of regret, the very idea that someone may not love us for who we are deep in our core, that they might not understand the things that drive us. I want to study the realness of life, not the gloss. There is beauty everywhere; even in the dark, there is light, and that is the rarest kind of all.’

I watched the enthusiasm brighten his features. ‘I don’t know anyone who thinks and talks like that,’ I admitted. ‘It’s… refreshing.’

‘It’s the truth,’ he said simply.

‘Can I see the others?’

He laid his pencil down and wheeled his chair back. I draped the hoodie over the chair beside me and leant across the table, balancing my weight on my palms.

There was a sketch of Gino and Dom playing a video game; they were sitting on the floor, their legs curled around them like they were little boys again. Controllers clutched in their hands, they were laughing with each other, their shoulders brushing, their heads thrown back towards the ceiling. Their eyes were crinkled at the sides and their noses were scrunched up in amusement. Dom was messing up Gino’s ponytail with his free hand.

‘It’s like the perfect moment,’ I breathed.

‘Happiness,’ said Valentino quietly, his eyes fixed on the scene.

I returned my gaze to Nic’s profile. His jaw was set, his expression focused.

‘And that one is Determination,’ Valentino added.

Beside the sketch of Nic there was a portrait of a woman standing in a kitchen. Her hands gripped the sides of the sink as she looked out the window in front of her. She was willowy and dishevelled, dressed in a silken floor-length robe that pooled around her feet. Streaks of sunlight danced along the tip of her nose, and a spill of dark hair fell freely down her back. Her brows were creased at sharp angles. ‘Is this your mother?’

He nodded.

‘She’s beautiful,’ I said.

‘She’s angry,’ said Valentino dispassionately.

I reached out and pulled the next portrait towards me. Luca. He was sitting alone on a stoop, dressed in a black suit. His knees came up to his chest, supporting his elbows. His shoulders were hunched, making his frame appear smaller, like Valentino’s. He was looking at the ground, at nothing, and his fingers were scraping through his hair, like he was trying to hurt himself.

I swallowed hard. It was difficult to look at it. I glanced at Valentino and found he wasn’t looking at it any more either.

‘Pain?’ I guessed quietly.

‘Grief,’ he replied.

‘It must be difficult to look beneath the mask,’ I said, my throat suddenly tight.

Valentino raised his chin. ‘No more difficult than it is to wear one.’

I pulled my hands back and straightened up as a wave of something unpleasant washed over me. I didn’t want to look at the portraits any more. It was an uncomfortable feeling, staring into the darkest moments of someone’s soul without them knowing. ‘Do you think you wear a mask?’

‘I’m wearing one right now.’ Valentino smiled softly. ‘We both are.’

‘It’s a sad thought.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But sometimes I wonder about the alternative. Imagine if we had no secrets, no respite from the truth. What if everything was laid bare the moment we introduced ourselves?’

The idea swirled around my head. Hello, I’m Sophie. My uncle’s a paranoid loon, my father’s in jail for murder, and my mother buries herself in work to distract herself from her broken heart. I’m pretty sure I prefer cartoons over real life and I only have one real friend. I’m terrified of storms and I’m deeply suspicious of cats. I obsess over the cuteness of sloths and sometimes I cry at commercials.

‘It would be terrible,’ I confirmed.

Valentino smirked as though he had just listened to my embarrassing inner monologue. ‘Absolute chaos.’

I nodded, feeling subdued. Somewhere deep down I was trying to fight the sudden urge to burst into tears. As if sensing my inner struggle, Valentino afforded me a moment of privacy. He deflected his gaze and started to rearrange his sketches into a pile, until I could only see the one he was still working on. It was a man maybe in his mid-forties, dressed impeccably in a glossy dark suit, and staring right at me from the page. For a heartbeat it felt as though I already knew him, that I had seen him somewhere before, but the moment passed, and I knew it was his son I was seeing. He was so like Nic it hit me like a punch in the gut. He had the same dark eyes with lighter flecks swimming inside, the same straight, narrow nose, and the same curving lips. His hair was grey in parts and receding, revealing a forehead etched with worry lines. His expression was grim.

‘Seriousness?’ I ventured.

‘No,’ Valentino said without looking up. ‘This one is Death.’ I watched him smudge the edges. ‘I draw my father every day so that I’ll never forget him. But there’s nothing more to find in him now. He’s with the angels and he doesn’t need to wear a mask any more. Everything he was is gone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I offered weakly. It really was the only thing I could think to say, and still it didn’t seem like half enough.

Valentino shrugged, his expression matter-of-fact. ‘You can’t avoid the inevitability of death. It comes at you one way or another, and takes us all to the same place in the end. To apologize for it is to apologize for the sun shining or the rain falling. It is what it is.’

I wanted to tell him he was lucky for his pragmatism, but I didn’t get the opportunity. A door opened behind me. I noticed the smell first: a faint sweetness in the air.

‘Valentino?’ A man’s voice, crisp and gentle, followed.

I turned to find a slim, middle-aged man staring at me with surprise. His skin was olive and his hair the brightest silver I had ever seen. His eyebrows were so light I could barely detect them, but by the way they were denting his forehead, I could tell they were raised.

‘Oh my,’ he said in a faint accent. ‘Hello there.’

He advanced towards me like a well-dressed beanpole, his head tilted to one side. I didn’t know much about men’s clothing, but I could recognize an expensive suit when I saw one. It was black with thin pinstripes, and beneath it he wore a shiny grey shirt and a silk neck scarf. If he was burning up in the humidity, he didn’t show it.

He stuck out his hand and I took it; his handshake was cold and firm. The sweet smell was stronger now that he was so close; it was almost cloying. There was something vaguely familiar about it, too, but I couldn’t place it.

‘And you are?’ he asked, a slow smile forming.

‘I’m Sophie, and I just stopped by to—’

‘What a pleasure,’ he said, silencing me with politeness and releasing my hand militarily.

I tried not to stare at the red marks all over his face: not quite pimples, more like pinpricks – hard to spot when far away but difficult to ignore at close range. It was like he had fallen into a rose garden face first.

‘Please excuse my intrusion. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m Felice,’ he said, pronouncing the ‘leech-ay’ part with a distinct Italian roll. ‘Valentino’s uncle.’

The switchblade buyer . I tried not to curl my lip in disgust.

‘You’re not interrupting anything,’ Valentino answered from over my shoulder. There was a hint of indignation in his voice.

Felice rounded the table in wide, graceful strides, taking most of the perfumed scent with him. ‘I wasn’t aware you boys had time to make friends in the neighbourhood.’

‘That’s not remotely the case,’ Valentino replied, his tone acidic. ‘Sophie is just returning something.’

I held up Nic’s hoodie in a bid to ease the strange tension that had descended upon us.

Felice looked at it sharply. ‘Is that Luca’s?’

‘Unlikely,’ said Valentino.

Felice shook his head. ‘Of course it’s not,’ he murmured. ‘ He has his priorities in order.’

I wasn’t sure if that was a dig at me or a dig at the other three brothers.

‘Dom’s?’ Felice asked with a frown, like it was the world’s most important mystery.

‘No. He’s taking out that girl from the diner.’

‘Ah yes, of course.’

My lips parted in surprise. So they already knew about Millie? That news was barely twenty-four hours old! They must have shared everything with each other. And yet they apparently had no idea who I was.

‘It’s Nic’s,’ I cut in, feeling marginally insulted. ‘I ran into him at the diner last night and he let me borrow it because it was raining.’

Felice stiffened, exchanging a poorly concealed look of alarm with Valentino.

‘Nicolò didn’t mention that,’ he said, regaining his composure in a flash of teeth.

His response landed with a blow. How could they know about Millie already but not a single iota about me? Nic obviously didn’t think me important enough to mention, even in passing. The thought made me feel stupid for even being there.

‘Well, here it is.’ I dropped the hoodie back on the chair carelessly. I had clearly made too much of it already. ‘I just wanted to give it back, but then we got to talking about Valentino’s artwork and the time got away from me.’

‘Ah.’ Felice clapped his nephew on the shoulder and glanced at the pile of drawings. ‘Exquisite, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ I said, wishing I had never come in the first place.

‘You know,’ said Felice, to no one in particular, ‘I’ve been reading the most incredible things about artistic sensibilities and their connection to great tragedy recently.’ He moved away from Valentino and began to pace around the table. ‘Did you know that many artists and composers have been known to create their best works following tragedies in their personal lives?’

He didn’t wait for either of us to respond, but continued striding around the kitchen, moving his hands around as he spoke. ‘Just look at Carlo Gesualdo, a famed Italian prince and widely regarded genius. He murdered his wife and her lover in their bed, mutilated their bodies and then strung them up outside his palace for everyone to see. And then he went on to compose some of the most powerful and dark music of the sixteenth century.’

Valentino shifted in his chair.

Felice stopped gesticulating and zeroed in on me for my reaction. ‘What do you think of that?’

I tried not to think of how horribly awry my plan had gone.

‘It seems to me that the composer’s tragedy was brought upon himself,’ I ventured, silently wishing I could just dissolve into the ground and slither home through the earth’s core. ‘So I’m not sure you should count it as something that happened to him.’

‘A debater, I see.’ Felice’s expression turned gleeful. ‘But surely you could argue that the pressure of having to exact retribution was brought upon him by his wife’s actions. To punish her was the societal expectation, but the act of having to do it, for him, I think, may still have been a personal tragedy.’

‘But surely he didn’t have to kill her.’ If only Millie could see me now – debating the intricacies of sixteenth-century murder. All this and headstones in the last twenty-four hours – the calendar said July, but it was definitely starting to feel like Halloween.

‘Well, his wife was unfaithful, and in those days, unfaithfulness carried a high penalty.’

‘As high as murder?’

‘I believe so.’

I crossed my arms, feeling offended on behalf of all sixteenth-century women. ‘I don’t feel her betrayal justified his response.’

‘Ah!’ Felice raised his index finger in the air like he had just happened upon the answer to an unsolved riddle. ‘But seeing as his response led directly to his musical legacy, perhaps, in the grander scheme of things, it did. All in all, I think it might have made the world a better place. And surely there is justification in that.’

‘Uh…’ I began awkwardly. I was getting confused, and certainly out of my depth. ‘I just think the whole thing is pretty messed up.’

‘Yes,’ echoed Valentino, clearing his throat. ‘It is messed up. Just like this conversation.’

Felice waved his hand dismissively, his attention now resting on the oil paintings behind us. ‘But the point is, the music was glorious. You must consider the possibility of an inverse correlation, which would mean a dark deed leading to a deeper connection with creative energy and, as a consequence, a beautiful composition.’

‘I don’t think you can really say murder leads to better creativity or vice versa.’ I wanted to add something along the lines of: So I wouldn’t go killing your wife just yet . But I thought better of it.

Felice clapped his hands together. ‘But isn’t it fascinating to think about? That the two parts of one’s psyche can coexist like that?’

‘There can be light in the dark,’ I said, echoing Valentino’s words from earlier.

He nodded thoughtfully, but I could sense his discomfort. He was gripping the sides of his chair so hard his fingers were turning white.

Ah, weird relatives. There was something quite sweet about the fact Nic and I shared slightly unhinged uncles. Maybe one day we would get to introduce them.

‘Absolutely!’ Felice responded to my borrowed maxim after a pause. ‘And sometimes a dark path can lead to a bright light.’

I shuffled awkwardly. He’d lost me again, but I was definitely beginning to see how he thought buying knives for his nephews was a good idea. ‘I guess it’s food for thought.’

Felice’s phone buzzed, filling the room with an intense flurry of opera. He closed his eyes and swayed to the music before finally pulling the phone out from his breast pocket and answering the call.

‘ Ciao , Calvino!’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Excuse me for one moment,’ he whispered, before leaving the kitchen.

I watched him go. ‘Well, he’s certainly… energetic.’

When I turned back to Valentino, his expression was unreadable.

‘Sophie,’ he said wearily. ‘Thank you for returning Nic’s hoodie, but I need to be honest with you. He wouldn’t want you here.’

I felt like I had been slapped. ‘What?’

‘I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,’ he continued in that same soothing lilt. ‘But we’re in the middle of a very private family matter.’

Was he referring to their father? His passing was obviously more recent than I’d realized.

‘I’ll go,’ I gulped.

Valentino smiled apologetically. ‘Please don’t take it personally.’

‘It’s fine,’ I lied, turning from him and hurrying across the kitchen. My gaze fell upon a large black frame to the left of the door. It was hoisted midway up the wall and was unmissable from this angle. Inside the frame was the same crest I had seen on Nic’s knife – jet-black with a crimson falcon at its centre. Below the crest, in cursive red script, it read: la famiglia prima di tutto . Family before everything – Nic’s grandfather’s words, I remembered.

‘It’s just the timing of it…’ Valentino called after me.

I felt tingly all over and I wasn’t sure why. Everything felt so intense all of a sudden. Feeling my cheeks prickle as the colour drained out of them, I pulled the double doors of the Priestly kitchen closed behind me.

I had barely made it to the end of the block when someone grabbed the back of my T-shirt. I stumbled backwards and bumped against a small cushioned body with a soft oomph!

I sprang around, shrugging away from the vice-like grip.

‘Mrs Bailey?’ The shrillness in my voice alerted me to an octave I didn’t know I could reach. ‘What are you doing?’

The old woman contorted her face like she had just bitten into a lemon. ‘I could ask you the same question, Persephone Gracewell. What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m on my way home. My shift at the diner starts in an hour.’ I wrung my hands to keep from shaking her. With the day I was having, this was the last thing I needed. ‘And my name is Sophie!’

‘I saw you go into that house,’ she shot back. ‘I told you to stay away from that family. You were in there so long I nearly called the police!’

‘Are you serious?’

She stiffened. ‘Haven’t you been reading the papers?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about several disappearances and two strange deaths in the last two weeks – all of whom were members of this community, and you haven’t even noticed. Open your eyes, Persephone!’

‘They are open!’ Or so I had thought. I obviously had a lot of googling to do.

Mrs Bailey was still ranting, pointing her finger directly in my face. ‘People don’t just drown in their own bathtubs, you know. And they don’t accidentally fall off roofs either!’

‘What are you saying?’ I asked, folding my arms to keep the sudden chill at bay.

Mrs Bailey dropped her voice. ‘I’m saying there’s a wrongness in that house and it’s not something you should be anywhere near.’

I didn’t make an attempt to hide my irritation. Another day, another rumour. ‘You can’t just go around saying stuff like that, Mrs Bailey!’

‘There’s a darkness,’ she hissed, her resolve unbroken.

I started walking again, quickening my pace so that she had to scurry to keep up. ‘It’s grief! They’re mourning their father.’

She didn’t seem the least bit surprised by my response. In fact, she snorted.

I gaped at her. ‘Do you find that amusing ?’

‘That man deserves to be where he is.’

I skidded to a halt.

She caught up with me, her chest heaving.

‘What did you just say?’

‘Listen to me very carefully, Persephone.’ She tugged at my arm, pulling me closer so that she could whisper. ‘That man deserves to be in the ground. And if those boys are anything remotely like him, then they do too.’

For a long moment I stared at her, my fists clenched at my sides, my nostrils flaring. I was desperately trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but with the way my emotions had been back-flipping all day, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and throttle her. Was that the kind of stuff she said about me behind my back? Her thoughts on my father had always been crystal clear. ‘How could you say something like that?’ I demanded.

Mrs Bailey looked over her shoulder, her eyes darting back and forth. ‘Persephone,’ she hissed through trembling lips. ‘There’s a reason that man was called the Angel-maker.’

The Angel-maker . A wave of nausea rolled over me and I wobbled on my feet. ‘What does that mean?’ I stammered.

‘What do you think it means?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been doing some digging and I can tell you, their father was a very bad man. I doubt those boys are much better, and you must trust me when I say that you should stay away from them. I don’t want to say any more than that.’

What the hell was that supposed to mean? That she actually had an I-better-not-spread-any-more-crap-today threshold. I regarded her warily. What could she possibly gain from saying this? Then again, what did she gain from saying all the stuff she usually said? She was a notorious drama queen and a one-woman rumour mill, and I started to wonder how many people she had warned away from me . Nic wasn’t bad, I was sure of it. And for that matter, neither were the rest of his brothers. They played basketball and video games. They teased each other and flirted with girls. It wasn’t fair to tar someone with their father’s reputation. I knew all about that, and I wasn’t about to make the mistake a lot of my former friends had. Especially when Nic’s father was already gone from this world.

I started walking again.

Mrs Bailey picked up her pace. ‘I’m trying to warn you.’

‘OK.’ I swerved around the next corner, swinging my arms out in the hopes they might bring me home faster. ‘I appreciate your concern.’

‘What were you doing inside that house anyway?’

As much as I didn’t want to feed her gossip addiction, I figured the truth might keep her quiet. ‘I was returning a sweatshirt I’d borrowed.’

‘You smell funny.’

‘Thanks.’

She started to sniff me.

I stopped again. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Each of my six senses is highly developed. I’m trying to figure out what that smell is.’

I remembered Felice and his sickly scent. ‘Is it sweet?’ I asked, raising the hand I had used to shake his and smelling it. The faint aroma still lingered on my fingers, but it wasn’t as strong as Mrs Bailey was making it out to be. Maybe I’d gotten used to it.

‘Yes,’ she said, taking my hand and sniffing it. Her whole face furrowed in concentration. ‘Is it a new perfume?’

‘I’m not wearing perfume.’

‘Ah,’ she heaved after a moment. Her voice was unbearably smug. ‘I know what it is!’

I folded my arms across my chest, pretending impatience, but a cold knot had already settled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t not take the bait. ‘What?’

Mrs Bailey arched an incriminating eyebrow, savouring her response. ‘It’s honey.’