I can see the jagged edges, and I’m not getting that close. I edge as near as I can and shine my phone’s flashlight inside.
“There is no one here, Kennedy,” he says as he stops outside the garden.
“I can see that.”
I peer in and lean close enough to the glass to make him rock forward, his reflection catching my eye.
“I think the painting’s here,” I say.
Silence behind me. I swear I can hear the internal debate raging. He suspects I’m just looking for an adventure. That is what brought me out of the car. Now he’s trying to decide whether I’d stretch the truth to continue that adventure.
“I sense a curse,” I say.
Reluctance shadows his voice as he says, “Is that normal?” In other words, he’s skeptical but hates to doubt.
“It depends,” I say as I survey the house. “I can usually sense them when I’m close, occasionally when I’m farther away. I’m not saying it’s definitely the painting, but there’s a cursed object in there. Which is a problem.”
“Because you don’t know what it is, and we could trigger it.”
“No, because . . .” I wave at the derelict building. “The chance of there being a cursed object at a random empty house is next to nil. If there’s a curse in there—painting or otherwise . . .?”
“It’s a trap.” He pauses, and there’s double the reluctance in his tone as he says, “Is that plausible?”
I exhale. “That’s the bigger problem, right? I found it while Hope was online looking at cursed dolls. It’s not as if someone emailed me the listing. I’m not even the one who bought it. So how can it be a trap?”
I throw up my hands. “Maybe I’m wrong. I’m on edge, and I’m imagining that I feel something inside because I want a distraction.”
I turn to the car. “Let’s just go.”
“No,” he says. “Even if there isn’t a cursed object inside, you sense something.”
“Possibly just frayed nerves.”
“All the more reason to be sure. We don’t see how this can be a trap, so there’s no danger. No reason to walk away without satisfying your curiosity. Otherwise, you’ll wonder whether the painting might have been here after all, whether someone could have arranged that listing to lure you in, and if so, then it’s better that we know before they try again.”
“But we agree it’s not possible.”
“I didn’t say that. Showing you that listing involves technology, which means we cannot say it is impossible, neither of us being experts in the field. Is it possible to hack a company that size? Probably not, if the sole purpose is to entice one visitor with one item. At the other end of the spectrum, is it possible to hack your computer and nudge you with that listing until it catches your eye? That seems more likely.”
“But again, I didn’t buy it.”
“No, I did. Using my credit card. Under my real name.” He looks up at the house. “I am concerned someone could be targeting you because of me.”
“Your parents.” I rub my arms. “You think this could be them?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he says, slowly, “I’m torn between saying they wouldn’t do this, and knowing I have said that far too often in my life, only to be proven wrong. However, usually when I say that, I mean they would not go so far. This is different. If I say I can’t see them doing this, it’s because it is overly complicated. Also, it leans too far into the magical side of our world, and they prefer the business side.”
“Destroying my credit rating rather than zapping me with a curse.”
“Yes. They see our luck working as a tool that gives us a business advantage if we wield it with precision and care.”
“To them, using luck working is no different than using any natural skill. Curse weaving is a parlor trick.”
“Using a curse isn’t their style.” He looks up at the house. “Which doesn’t mean they never would. Or that this could not possibly be their trap.”
“So . . .”
“So I believe we both have reason to investigate. Reasons that will not allow us to rest until we have answered this question.”
“Time to break into the scary house?”
“I’m afraid so.”
* * *
We start by checking the entrance points. We don’t find any traps, but it still seems unwise to throw open the front door and march in. All of the main-floor windows are broken. We select one near the back and clear the glass enough to safely climb through. Once inside, we stand in the kitchen and shine our cell-phone flashlights around.
As I squint into the near darkness, Connolly bends to examine the floor.
“Footprints.” He lowers his light to show me. “There is no accompanying layer of dust on them, which suggests they’re recent.”
He snaps a photo.
“Excellent,” I say. “Now we have photographic evidence that will help us capture the teenagers who use this as a party hangout.”
He frowns at me as he rises. I point to a pile of crushed beer cans in one corner and chip bags on the grimy counter. He continues to frown.
“Kids are using this as party spot, Connolly.”
“That seems . . .” He looks around. “Unsanitary.”
I laugh under my breath. “Yep, but not all teens can afford to rent the penthouse suite for a bash. Keep the photo, though. Just because people have used this place to party doesn’t mean those are their prints.”
I don’t say they could be left by whoever set this trap. That would imply there is a trap, and now that I’m inside, I’m not so sure. Whenever I try to focus on that curse signal, I can’t pick up anything. Then I relax, talking with Connolly, and the sensation comes again, only to evaporate once I notice.
“Do you sense anything now?” Connolly asks, clearly practicing his mind-reading.
“I’m not sure. I might have been imagining it.”
“Then at least we aren’t intentionally walking into a trap.”
He tries for a smile but can’t manage one. It’s been a long night for both of us, and it’s barely ten o’clock.
I rub my hands over my face and give myself a shake. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Quick survey of the rooms—”
Something flickers past the doorway, and I spin.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
“See what?”
“Question answered,” I murmur.
I shine my light on the darkened doorway. It leads into the dining room, given the remains of a dinette set inside.
I step toward it. Connolly lays his fingers on my upper arm, but the gesture only urges caution. I keep shining my light as we approach the doorway. Then comes the question of who goes through first. Connolly strides forward, as if there’s no question. Yet as he steps in front of me, he has the sense to glance over.
I consider. Yep, I totally want to be first through any door. But this isn’t the time to negotiate a bigger slice of the danger pie. I motion that he can go ahead. He adjusts his flashlight beam and approaches. A quick scan, and he steps through . . . and jumps.