Page 40 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Celestine’s greatest shame played on the shards like a silent picture show.

To her left played the moment when her father walked out their door for the last time.

Child Celestine never cried during this memory, because she didn’t know it would be important.

She didn’t know he’d never come back. She didn’t know she’d never see his face again—a fact that would scar her forever because, over time, her memory of it faded.

She couldn’t even say now what color hair he had. Was it blonde like hers, red like her sister’s, or brown like her mother’s? Celestine didn’t know.

He was just a shape, a tall man-shaped hole in her life.

On the right mirror, the shard played the worst moment of her life.

A couple of years after her father’s disappearance, Celestine woke up from her Sunday mid-afternoon nap—after Sunday mass, Celestine always wanted a nap—and she discovered her mother’s ravaged body.

It appeared to have been torn apart by a beast. But it wasn’t just her mother who was dead.

A chunk of her sister’s red hair sat in the middle of the floor, and her blood painted the room like modern art splatter-paintings.

But no matter where she looked, Celestine couldn’t find her sister’s body. Whatever monster—and it was a monster—who’d attacked them ran off with the nineteen-year-old’s body. Celestine was nine years younger, and her sister was like a second mother to her.

For Celestine, this time it was her greatest fear playing down the hall: Dean leaving her. Everett telling her she was worthless and James never speaking to her again—never fucking her again, kissing and flirting with other girls in front of her.

Treating her like the trash one took out and abandoned on the curb .

Her greatest fear was being alone. Alone because everyone had left her—because that’s what people always did.

The one mocking her now was a moving picture of her dying, over and over again, with no one there and no one to care or grieve her death.

Celestine’s vision tunneled in on it, and her heart hitched—which was ironic, because in the vision, Celestine held her chest, her heart failing, and her face turning blue. But no one was there to compress it, to try to get it moving again, to try to restart its rhythm.

Always her fucking heart.

Celestine swallowed and blinked then turned and walked out of the hallway of horrors.

The problem with trying to torture a dying woman was that there came a time when she no longer felt anything, when apathy clung to her skin and refused to let the fear in, because there came a moment when acceptance overcame all darkness and peace won out.

Peace was far stronger than fear.

Celestine replayed the clue in her head. Here is your only clue: It lies beneath the silvered tree.

There was only one silvered tree in the house. It wasn’t even hard to solve—the Library. A large, framed painting of a silver tree was at the center, surrounded by a cove of books.

She shook her head. Far too easy. However, given the obstacles—the horror house—she understood why it was easy. It was so easy, in fact, that she wasn’t the first one to solve it. The Ashbrook twins were already there, deep in argument.

“Why did you have to do this?” Everett snapped in a low, hushed voice. “You’re not as perfect as you would assume.”

“I know I’m not,” Dean responded with a cool, measured tone .

Everett crossed his arms, no sign of his previous intoxication. “No, you’re a hypocritical prick. Manipulative and awful.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant coming from you, seeing as you love your puppets so damn much.”

“At least I don’t torture the ones I love—the love of my life.”

“No, you’re right.” Dean laughed, thick and crooked. “You did absolutely nothing.”

“Why don’t you take the plank out of your eye, brother, before you point out the speck in mine?” Everett quoted the Bible, which was strange, because Celestine didn’t think of him as that devoted. “What you’re doing is far worse.”

“At least she’s alive…”

A long, tense pause rattled between the twins. They both looked like ancient statues. One, Apollo, emanating a sickly light, and the other, Hades, cloaked in shadows. “Perhaps you should find the knife now, Ev?”

“As you wish, my lord,” Everett mocked. He walked over to the painting and easily pulled the knife out from underneath it.

As soon as the knife handle hit his flesh, the house morphed back into its normal state.

“I’ve found it. I found it.” He held up the knife and turned on his falsely cheerful mask and voice.

James, Vivian, and Jon burst into the room, pretending to play the game with vigor. When James reached his brother, he grabbed the knife out of his hand and reprimanded him. “You got your fingerprints all over it. Idiot.”

A bright, fake smile danced on Everett’s face. “I’m not good at silly games.”

Neither of the brothers was that reckless, and both had touched the knife. They weren’t helping the investigation. They were obscuring it. Why? To what end?

“You’re so book smart, but oh-so stupid.” James rolled his eyes .

Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be that guy, but you also just touched the knife.”

James’s eyebrows dropped. “Well, fuck.”

Celestine clenched her fists, her nails biting her palms. She was so fucking over this. James was not that stupid. He knew exactly what he was doing. She was done with manipulation and done with the Ashbrooks. She would go to her room, pack her bags, answer the riddle, and leave.

And if she got it wrong, so fucking be it.

“Oh, child, you look like hell.” Frances stepped into Celestine’s path as she exited the Library. Using the hem of her skirt, Frances wiped off some of the blood still lingering on Celestine’s face. “Did you take a bath in blood?”

“I might as well have,” Celestine said, pursing her lips. “How has your investigation been going?”

Celestine probably should have been working with Frances and Babette more during the show, but she had become so wrapped up in her character and all her many issues and vendettas. Now, though, they needed to work together.

“It’s been going better than I expected.” She scratched her head, and with her other hand, she pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. “I know you said you think the Specter is Dean, but I am beginning to believe it’s James.”

Celestine narrowed her eyes in question.

“I was racking my mind, and Dean doesn’t fit.

The Specter is flashy, methodical, and twisted.

” Frances held out a piece of paper, and all her notes were written on it.

“Dean isn’t flashy. He doesn’t like it when you are the murderer, and he would never force you to do it. It’s not in his character. ”

“It could be,” Celestine said. “What do we even know of Dean? He never speaks.”

“Just because he doesn’t speak doesn’t mean we know nothing about him. We can gather far more from someone’s actions. See, look at this.” Frances pointed to the paper. “His actions don’t match the Specter, but James’s do.”

Celestine hesitantly took the paper from Frances.

She wasn’t convinced. Dean was still the far more logical answer.

He played piano, mixed up words, and knew far too many intimate things about Celestine.

Only the Specter would have had that knowledge.

Not to mention, he was the one who called her Celine. But Celestine took the paper anyway.

Tiny script was scribbled all over the paper, but the biggest handwriting said gum, crossbow, wanting to be murdered, deeply methodical, sick enough to design the games.

Celestine bit the inside of her cheek and returned the paper to Frances.

“If tonight’s mystery is also supposed to lead us to the name of the Specter, then it would have to be James, too.” Frances tucked the paper back into her apron. “The gum on the crossbow is a clue to James. It has to be him.”

Celestine shook her head, unconvinced. There was an equal amount of evidence, if not more, leading to Dean.

“I feel it in my bones, Celeste. James is the Specter.”