“No, don’t say that!” I objected. “Without Grandfather I wouldn’t have studied music. I wouldn’t compose!”
Dad returned his attention to me. “Nor would you be infected with this foolish notion that you are predisposed to become an insane killing machine.”
I knew we’d reached the end of the discussion. Or perhaps not quite the end, because he reached out again, taking my wrist more gently this time. “Tristen,” he said, his tone softer, too, “if there was a ‘Hyde curse,’ I would also suffer, wouldn’t I? According to your grandfather’s fables, all the Hyde men go mad, correct?”
“Yes,” I agreed, looking away, unable to meet his eyes, because, even discounting Mom’s disappearance, there had been times after Grandfather had started talking so freely, so desperately, that I’d looked back on my father’s behavior and wondered if something wasn’t quite right.
“Tristen, look at me,” Dad ordered, removing his glasses, as if to eradicate any small barrier that might impede my understanding.
I forced myself to meet those gray eyes. “Yes?”
“There is no curse,” he said softly and convincingly. “Let the idea go before you really do harm your psyche.”
“Fine,” I agreed, primarily so I could end the discussion and unlock my eyes from his. “Whatever you say.”
However, I wasn’t convinced. Not convinced at all. If only I could have really confided in him, told Dad about that evening I’d been with that girl by the river. And that night in London—the rest of the story about Grandfather and what I suspected . . .
Of course I couldn’t, though. That last secret—it would have to go with me to my grave.
Slipping his glasses back onto his narrow nose, my father shifted in the booth, reaching for his wallet. “I need to return to campus,” he said. “Will you be all right?”
“You’re going to back to work now?” I asked. “It’s nearly eight o’clock.”
“This fellowship is important,” Dad reminded me. “I didn’t suspend my practice in London—and your education at one of England’s best academies—in order to sit in a rental house in the Pennsylvania countryside. I need to prepare lectures and conduct research that will impress my American colleagues.”
The suspicion that I kept fighting off crept back yet again. I could understand that the fellowship at the prestigious Severin College of Medicine was a good chance to introduce Dr. Frederick Hyde to an even wider, international audience, but lately his hours had been getting longer and longer. How much research could he do?
Dad summoned our server with an imperious wave, signaling for the check. As they settled the bill, I again watched out the window. And who should walk into my line of sight but Jill Jekel and Becca Wright, the two unlikeliest of friends.
One wore a short denim skirt and tight T-shirt, the other a lacy blouse. Not sexy lacy. Virginal, wedding-veil, Victorian lacy.
One gestured actively with fuchsia-tipped fingers. The other struggled to keep her small pale hands wrapped around a huge artist’s portfolio.
One sometimes showed up in my nightmares, falling into my arms, feeling the prick of a blade against her skin . . . One was . . .
“Interested, Tristen?” Dad asked, jerking me back from my reverie.
I realized that he was watching me as I followed Jill and Becca’s progress down the street. “No.” I shook my head. “Not at all.”
As the words came out of my mouth, I was certain that I told the truth. Yet I felt, for some reason, like a liar, because both of those girls, they did intrigue me, in very different—sometimes disturbing—ways.
Chapter 5
Jill
BECCA WRIGHT was stretched out on my bed kicking her tanned, pedicured feet in the air as she flipped through Foundations of the Chemical World like it was Star magazine and she was looking at photos of beautiful people, not molecular models.
I stood in the corner at my easel, adding a bright sun to my canvas but keeping one eye on Becca’s halfhearted attempt at studying, wondering how long she’d keep up the charade.
After about two more minutes the book slammed shut and Becca sat up, twisting her long legs into a pretzel, the same way we used to sit together on a rug in our kindergarten classroom.
Why had we stayed friends for so many years, long after Becca had gone on to be popular? Was it just because we still lived on the same block and ended up walking to school together every day? Or did she really just need me even more than like me? That was probably the truth . . .
Outside, lightning flashed as a late-summer storm blew closer, and no matter how Becca felt about me, I was glad she was there while Mom worked an evening shift.
“Jilly?” Becca ventured when the thunder faded away. “I was just thinking.”
“Yes?” I dabbed more chromium yellow on my canvas. “About what?”
“The stupid way Messerschmidt grades us,” Becca said. “You know, how he only gives two real tests the whole year, so if you flunk one, you’re doomed.”
“I’ll help you study,” I promised. Like always . . .
“Yeah, and you’ll end up trying to teach me everything at the last minute,” she said matter-of-factly, like neither one of us had any choice in the matter. “It’ll take hours.”
I shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
“Well . . . what if you just helped me during the test?” Becca asked.
The suggestion startled me so much that my hand jerked, messing up my painting. But I gave her a wobbly, uncertain smile in case she was joking. “Becca, you don’t really want to . . . cheat?”
She untwisted her legs and hopped to the edge of the bed. “Just think about it, Jill,” she said in a way that told me she wasn’t kidding. “You practically give me all the answers anyway. What does it matter if I memorize them right before the test or if you text me under the table during the exam?”
I shook my head, not believing that Becca was honestly suggesting that we should cheat. “We could get caught,” I reminded her. “It would go on our records! And we’d probably get
