Charles flopped onto his bed and closed his eyes, and for a
moment Cora was more troubled by being in a room alone with
the two boys than she was by betraying Arthur.
“We can leave the door open, if you’d like,” Thomas said. His
acknowledgment of her discomfort was enough to alleviate it, and
she knelt next to him, smiling grimly.
The case popped open and they both looked up, locking
gazes. Before she realized what she was doing, her fingers rested
against his cheek. His eyes widened in surprise and she blushed,
dropping her hand into the case and hastily pulling out the
first item.
It was a portrait. The paint was oil, thick and textured, the
weight of the portrait hinting at age. It had been torn and frayed
along the edges, as though pulled roughly from a frame. Even
though the paint was cracked and slightly warped, the image
was instantly recognizable. Cora narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
“Is that . . . ?”
Thomas leaned forward and let out a whispered epithet.
“Alden,” she said, her stomach clenching as Thomas con-
firmed it with a nod.
“I’m really tired of that man,” Charles said from the bed, his
voice sleepy and unconcerned.
“Keep going,” Cora said, setting the portrait carefully to the
side and then wiping her fingers, which felt oily and stained with
Alden’s image.
Thomas pulled out a leather-bound notebook filled with loose
papers. He cracked it open and Cora crawled to sit next to him.
The writing was odd, sometimes gouged into the paper, some-
times running together to near illegibility as though the author
feared he’d run out of time.