Page 4 of The Bone Code

The picture was in color though somewhat faded. A close-up and obviously posed, the shot had been snapped outside on a sunny day. Two teenage girls stood behind a wall with only their heads visible, chins and forearms resting on the top row of bricks. Each had chestnut hair, worn center-parted and ear-tucked. Each had the odd honey-colored eyes.

Both girls grinned mischievously while staring straight into the lens. They looked identical.

I studied the image, feeling a vague sense of unease. Of recognition? But that was impossible.

Beecroft’s words cut into my thoughts. “—didn’t take as many photos back then. Not like today, with young people capturing every second of their lives, posting images of themselves flossing their teeth or cleaning the pantry or torturing the cat, or whatever. Really. Does anyone care about such triviality? But do forgive me. I digress.

“The quality has deteriorated, but our faces are still quite clear. I’m on the left, Harriet is on the right. We were eighteen at the time. We’d just graduated from high school and been admitted to Vassar. But that is also irrelevant. How I do go on.”

Beecroft offered another photo, this one encased in a protectivesleeve. I laid the first on the table beside me, took the second, and observed it through the plastic.

The sepia tones and white cracks suggested that this image was considerably older. As did the formal pose and style of clothing.

But the subject matter was similar. Two teenage girls looked straight at the camera, one seated, one standing with her hand on the chair back. Both wore high-necked, long-sleeved dresses with complexly draped ankle-length skirts. Neither smiled.

The resemblance to Polly and Harriet Beecroft was uncanny.

I looked up, seeking explanation.

“That’s my grandmother and her sister,” Beecroft said. “They, too, were twins.”

My eyes dropped back to the picture.

“That portrait was made in 1887. They were seventeen years old.”

“They look exactly—”

“Yes,” Beecroft said. “They do. Did.”

Then Beecroft handed me the final photo.

Hollow silence echoed around us, punctuated by the rumbles of the mounting tempest.

I heard nothing. Saw nothing but the image in my hand.

I swallowed, too shaken to speak.

2

Tuesday, October 5

Both Carolinas have miles of coastline, so hurricanes aren’t uncommon. Wilmington. New Bern. Myrtle Beach. Charleston. At one time or another, each has been slammed.

Charlotte is up in the piedmont, so largely safe, but if a hurricane or snow warning is issued, the Queen City goes berserk. Schools and courts close. Supermarkets empty. Generators and batteries disappear. Usually, it’s then a big fizzle. We sweep up and resume bagging groceries, meeting clients, and driving carpool.

I’m not an alarmist. Far from it. But the weather that day appeared determined to live up to the hype. The rain was holding off, but the barometric pressure felt about a billion pounds per square inch, with gusts growing more belligerent by the second.

A shawl and a babushka aren’t aerodynamically suited to wind, but the oxfords were a prudent choice. Though the walk to Beecroft’s entrance was challenging, we managed.

Normally, I’d have checked on Mama, but she was away on one of her spiritual healing adventures. Arizona? The Catskills? I wasn’t sure. Made a mental note to phone her.

From Rosewood, it wasn’t far to Sharon Hall, the turn-of-the-centurymansion-turned-condo-complex in which I own a unit called the annex. No one knows when the tiny two-story structure was built. Or why. The annex appears on none of the old deeds or property maps. I don’t care that its tale is forever lost to history. In fact, the enigma is part of the appeal.

I moved into the annex following the collapse of my marriage and during my occupancy have changed little save bulbs and filters. Until recently. Now a spiffy new study occupies space that for eons had served as an attic.

For the briefest instant, an image flashed. Craggy face, heart-spinning blue eyes, sandy hair losing out to gray.

My chest tightened. Thoughts of my new roommate, Andrew Ryan? Or the fierce blast of air that rocked the car?