Page 11 of Divine Oaths

“It’s fine,” I insisted. “If you stay any longer, you’ll fall asleep at the wheel when we drive back. And we both know I can’t drive shift.”

Louisa sighed, relenting finally.

“If anything happens, call me. All right? The kind of people who hang around here at this hour—”

“We’re the kind of people who hang around here at this hour. I’ll be fine. I spent over twelve hours looking into the lifelines of half the people in the mall. If I’m in danger of anything, it’s catching a cold.”

Louisa hesitated. “All right,” she said again. “But if you and Jojo aren’t on your way back yet by the time I get there, then I’ll lock you in the boot myself and drag you home.”

We finished loading the car, and by the time Louisa got in the driver’s seat, I was already making my way to Jojo’s sedan.

She waited until I opened it, slipped in the passenger seat, and locked it from the inside before she drove off. I pulled out my phone and texted Jojo again.

Why are you being so cryptic? Did something happen?

My hands shook as I waited for his answer. But he didn’t respond immediately. One minute passed, then two, then fifteen. I glanced around the car. It was old and secondhand, the inside war-torn and beat-up from when the first owner had sold it to Jojo.

In the back seat, Jojo had crammed his laundry and stacks of books: Supernatural Sightings; Virginia’s Haunted History; Ancient Artifacts of Note. There was food too, folded wrappers from sandwiches he’d eaten over the week, food containers that hadn’t been washed and faintly smelled of the rice Louisa had made for us a day ago. With his busy schedule, I wasn’t surprised that he’d used his car as a second home. His apartment was crammed enough with books and research. His car was probably the only place that he could have a makeshift dinner.

In the front of his car, the glove box was slightly open. I tried to close it, but as I did, a loose sheet of paper caught my attention.

Jojo’s handwriting was scribbled on it.

Objects have history. Breaking the curse means uncovering what’s tethering it to the family.

I frowned, looking closer.

Ghostly possession can happen one of two ways. A body without a host. An object functioning as a conduit between the spirit and its ability to control the original host. A separation ritual may need to be performed to free the original host of spiritual possession.

None of his scribbles were coherent. Nor were they the research materials I’d thought I’d find in his notes. I dug inside, not knowing what I was searching for even as I pulled a letter from where it lay crumpled in the back.

The top and bottom corners had been burned, making it impossible to decipher who the letter was addressed to or from. But the lily insignia at the bottom was unmistakable. So too was what I could make out from the letter.

I’m writing because you don’t answer my calls or my texts or emails. I heard you took the job at Westfield. I don’t know what to say. It’s been years. Why now? What’s changed? I want to ask all those questions, want to pretend I’m excited to see you again. But part of me is afraid. Because I know what it means. We both do. I guess this is just me being optimistic. Me hoping upon hope that the rumors are wrong. That you’re not coming back. That we can let the curse play out as it will. But I know time is running out. For the both of us. All I ask is that you hold out. Just for a few months. If I can’t break it, if I end up like the others, then so be it. But if I survive? If I inherit what’s ours? Then it will be worth it. I know it sounds selfish of me. But I’ve been sending the money like I said I would. Isn’t that enough? I’m begging you. Don’t take the job. Don’t come back.

I read the letter again and again, trying to make sense of it, seeing the words with my own eyes but not accepting it. Until it sank in.

Jojo’s behavior these last few weeks and everything he’d said today. The reason why he’d been so distant from me was because his new job was at Westfield.

He’d lied to me about it, and he knew someone at Westfield, someone who was begging him not to return. Since the fire, I’d had so much guilt about what had unfolded. So many people had died. And if it hadn’t been for me, my parents would never have gone to Westfield that day either. They’d be alive. Throughout all of my grief, Jojo had talked down on Westfield, on its culture, on the prestige of having previously attended it himself. And yet, here he was, taking his first research job at the very university he’d denounced. The place we’d both sworn to stay away from.

Outside, footsteps drew closer.

I ducked, hiding beneath the glove box, and something fell from where the stacks of letters and papers had been hastily crammed inside. It was cool and firm to the touch, and I winced as it pressed against my palm; a bracelet, and from the trails of moonlight filtering into the car, I could make out glass beads and cowrie shells threaded together into its form, while a gold ring dangled from the center of it. At the metal base of the ring, I traced an outline of engraved initials: KSJ.

Jojo had never been the type to wear jewelry, so finding something stuffed in his glove box was as odd as the burnt letter. Before I could stop myself, I slipped the letter and the bracelet in my pocket.

I glanced outside as the footsteps neared, wondering if Jojo had returned. But it was staff and security from the mall, not him.

They’d closed the building for the night and were heading in my direction, toward their own cars parked nearby. I couldn’t let them find me here after hours, rummaging through Jojo’s things like some bitter, toxic ex. Before they could see me, I stumbled out of the car, slipping the door closed and venturing into the confines of the alleyway linked to Center City Mall. Up ahead, there were rows of dumpsters, and farther off, the exit of the alleyway loomed. I was nearly there, my heart thudding in my chest, making every breath I took strained.

But then I saw him behind two dumpsters, his body limp, his back pressed against the wall.

Something red and deep and liquid trailed from the foot of the dumpster.

I knew better than to look, but I crouched down anyway.

Blood.