Page 26 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

Chapter Seventeen

T he vampire club didn’t have answers, but the night wasn’t a total waste, considering the fun I had with Caldwell and Margaux. Dancing, drinking—the fun we should be having in college.

Now, it’s back to work.

“Tell me again why we have to do this…” It’s something I’ve been avoiding for a while.

As far as my parents are concerned, I went back to Portland shortly after Poppy’s funeral. Castine is small enough that I run the risk of bumping into them around town, but considering their fear of Strode, I doubt it will happen. I spend most of my time on campus.

The three of us are parked outside of my mother’s house. It had once been full of my little family: my mother, my father, and me.

Now, when I’m not visiting, she lives here alone. Thinking about it elicits a pang of guilt, but it’s not enough for me to visit more often. Being around my mother is stressful.

Bringing my supernatural friends with me is next level. And if she knows I’m dating one of them? I don’t even want to think about what she would say.

Back in the day, this house was gorgeous.

It was a typical 90s suburban home: gray panels, with a little brick, and a nicely trimmed yard.

The yard isn’t as taken care of now that my father is gone.

The overgrowth isn’t concerning, but other things about the home are.

There’s the garland of garlic around the door, for one.

“I want to see the mask.” Margaux unbuckles.

We decided to take her car, and it’s one my mother knows well… which means she’s probably expecting us inside. Terrific.

I turn to Caldwell with my lips pressed together. “You can wait in the car.”

His lips twitch up at the corner. “Why would I do that? You already saw my childhood home.”

“Don’t expect hers to be anything like yours,” Margaux drawls. “Mrs. Underwood is a piece of work.”

“The garlic thing must be a myth,” I say, squinting at Margaux.

Of course, it is. She’s been inside the house more times than I can count, and the garlic has never stopped her.

Margaux lets out a cackle. “You think a little fragrance is going to keep us away? Please. We don’t particularly like the smell, but it won’t kill me.”

“Then there is some truth behind it…” Caldwell lowers his head to hide a smile.

“Oh, shut up.” Margaux marches forward, leading me into my own home. “She won’t like you any more than she does me, so you had better keep your witchy ways under wraps.”

“I was planning on it,” he says.

“Good luck. She’s paranoid. She’ll probably be able to smell it on you.”

That would explain why my mother dislikes Margaux. There’s no other reason, aside from her parents having everything my mother wants. Money, comfort, and a long-lasting marriage.

Why should she blame Margaux for that?

The door swings open before we reach it, and there stands my mother. I’m short, about five foot two, but my mother is a good two inches smaller than me. She looks tiny in the doorway. Her long hair is held back in a tight bun, and she seems to age each time I see her.

I don’t see eye-to-eye with my mother on most things, but she is genuinely happy to see me. She loves me, and I’ve never had to doubt it, even if her love is often overbearing.

A smile takes her face, making her look years younger, and she rushes down the cracked path to wrap me in a tight hug.

“I didn’t know you were visiting!” she says in my ear.

“It was a last-minute thing…” I exchange a look with Margaux as I pat my mother’s back.

My mother pulls away, resting her hands on my shoulders. She looks me up and down. “You’re not eating well.”

“I am!” I roll my eyes playfully.

Strode has no shortage of food.

“You probably aren’t eating the right things. Come inside, I’m going to make dinner for you and”—she turns to the other two, her eyes narrowing—"your friends.”

Margaux gives a small wave. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Underwood.”

I shake my head at Margaux. Using my mother’s married name is a trigger.

She blinks at Margaux. For a moment, I think she’s going to chew her out. Luckily, that doesn’t happen. She doesn’t even remind her of her new surname .

“Quite,” my mother says, turning her attention to Caldwell. “And you are?”

Caldwell offers a handshake, which my mother accepts.

“Caldwell,” he says.

“He’s a new friend of mine.” I’m fast to interject, not wanting her to know he and I may be more than friends. “We can’t stay for dinner, but…”

My mother’s expression drops into a look of disappointment. “You can’t? Are you sure?”

“Not dinner,” I say, “but… we can stay for a bit.”

It isn’t much, but it’s enough to make my mother perk up. “Oh, how wonderful!”

I hold my breath as she ushers us inside, half-expecting the garlic ward to keep Margaux at bay. Of course, it doesn’t. She walks into the place with so much confidence that you would think she’s the one living here.

The kitchen is still perfect—it’s a perfect fit for another decade. The walls are pale yellow, and the cabinets are the orange wood you only saw in the 90’s.

My mother keeps the place tidy enough, but it’s outdated and unloved. While she took pride in the home when I was younger, it’s now filled with reminders of my father—and of their messy divorce. The home is the only thing she won from it.

He gambled all our money away, leaving my mother and I to fend for ourselves.

“What about a drink?” My mother bustles around the kitchen with her back to us. “I have hot chocolate.”

I shrug at the others. “Hot chocolate would be fine.”

“We don’t have the good stuff,” my mother says, glancing briefly at Margaux. “Sorry.”

Margaux smiles tightly. “Anything you have is fine.”

“Make yourselves at home then,” my mother says.

The other two do, but I remain standing.

“I’m going to get something from my room,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”

“Oh!” My mother is likely frowning, but I don’t linger to see it.

I run up to my room, hoping the other two can keep her distracted. The problem with the bird mask is that it’s huge, and the last thing I need is her asking what it is.

I don’t want my mother to be involved in any of this. She would only get in the way—and put herself in danger while she’s at it.

My room is untouched, though I suspect she comes inside to dust now and then. My bed is perfectly made in plain white colors, and the posters from my teenage years still cover the walls.

I don’t have time to stop and smell the nostalgia. Downstairs, Margaux and my mother are probably having a tense conversation, and I would like to free my friend as quickly as possible.

The mask is hidden in the same spot I’ve always used to stow things away. It’s classic, a loose floorboard in the back of my closet. I move onto my knees and lift the floorboard to reveal the plague doctor’s mask. It’s big enough to take up my entire hiding spot.

I lift the white mask. It has to be the same as the one in the painting. My fingers run over the Strode crest engraved in the mask. After a moment of contemplation, I make my way downstairs.

My mother’s voice carries through the house. “How are those parents of yours, anyway? Your mother is always out of town.”

“She’s in Milan,” Margaux says evenly.

Margaux’s parental supervision, or lack thereof, was always a point of contention for my mother. She’s the type to know the parents of all my friends, and having never met Margaux’s is what she considers a personal slight.

Margaux has always done a good job at deflecting my mother’s questioning, but now that I know the reason for her parent’s secretive nature, I have more to worry about than before.

She never liked any of my friends. They were all bad influences, in her eyes. I’m not sure she’ll approve of anyone in my life. It only got worse after my father left, with her constantly reminding me I couldn’t trust anyone.

For a time, I believed her, but I know with certainty that I can trust these two.

There’s no saying how my mother would react to the news of Margaux being a vampire, but pitchforks would probably be involved.

I creep out of the back door with the mask. As quickly as I can, I throw the bird mask in the car and run back inside. I’m breathless as I enter the kitchen, and my mother has turned her grilling to Caldwell instead.

The three of them are seated around our kitchen table, and the tension in the air is palpable. They are not having a pleasant conversation, even if my mother would say otherwise.

“You work at the library?” my mother asks, her brows lifting. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“That would be why,” he says. “Though I no longer volunteer there.”

“Aw. That’s too bad. Our library can always use a bit more TLC.” My mother sighs. “Tobey loved it there when they were young.”

“I did,” I say, sliding into the last remaining seat at the round, wooden table. “And I still do. It’s the prettiest building in all of Castine.”

After two hours of stiff conversation, we finally free ourselves from the house.

My mother shoves Tupperware containers of food in my arms and makes me promise to eat well. I take the offered food, even though I don’t have a microwave to reheat it in.

None of her casseroles can compare to the food at Strode, but she wouldn’t want to hear that.

We return to campus, parking in the lot and remaining huddled around the car as Caldwell—sitting in the backseat—inspects the mask.

“This is exactly like the one in the painting,” he mutters. “You’re right.”

“Let me see.” Margaux turns around, taking the mask from Caldwell. Her brows furrow. “Why does this look familiar?”

“It does?” I lean in, my eyes glistening with hope.

I was unwilling to get the mask in the first place, and I’m still convinced it’s not a clue we need. We’ve seen the painting, and we know the mask is important to the investigation, but finding new clues feels more important than inspecting the first one I found.

Maybe I’m wrong about that. Seeing my mother wasn’t all that bad, anyway.

“I don’t remember where, but… I’ve seen this before. Outside of the party.” Margaux shakes her head. “God, I wish I could remember. I’m coming up blank.”

“It will come to you,” I say.

She presses her lips together. “It will.”

At least now, we’re on the same page. We’ve seen each of the clues, and they know how eerie the bird mask is when you’re holding it in your hands.

It’s different from the painting. It’s huge, hulking, and heavy—as if it’s carved of real bone. Maybe it is. It’s certainly not made of cheap plastic.

“And you found this in the woods?” Caldwell asks.

“I did,” I say. “Near Roslyn Street—it was at the spot I showed you. I found it three days after she died.”

“Then it has to be connected,” Margaux says. “Good job, Tobey.”

I smile, and it’s genuine—but with every baby step we take forward, I worry we’re not moving fast enough.