“Look for anything that has to do with the Vessel. We need to know what he knows about ... it.”
I fingered the spine of classics (Moby Dick, Gulliver’s Travels) and figured my dad must have been quite the traveler from his collection of Let’s Go! guides. I passed over the usual stock of New York Times bestsellers and John Grisham novels, then stopped on one book—Stroham’s Guide to Angels. Beside that, Contacting Angels and Communicating After Death.
“I haven’t found anything about the Vessel, but he sure is into angels.”
“Makes sense,” Alex said, turning to me and showing the carved ivory angel figurine he held in his hand.
I turned back to the bookshelf and bumped a small volume that stuck out from the pack. It was simply titled Dark Angels.
I held the book up. “Maybe he was looking for you, too.” I thumbed through the book. “It’s all about fallen angels. It was probably for work though; my grandmother did say he was a professor of mythological studies at one time.”
Alex snorted. “Angels. Mythological. Whatev.”
I grinned. “Don’t get your wings in a bunch.”
Alex scanned the bookshelves, the blue-white light of his flashlight illuminating the spines.
“Communicating with the dead, waking the dead,” he murmured, “your dad was sure death-occupied.”
I crouched down to get a better look at a stack of papers on the bottom shelf. “Well, that’s a plus.”
Alex looked at me, confused.
“I would think Satan would know how to talk to the dead, so maybe Lucas is just ...” I struggled not to say Dad. “A guy.” I snagged a book off the shelf and wagged it in front of Alex. “Also, I don’t think Satan reads Janet Evanovich.”
He grinned. “I guess that’s good news.”
I shoved the book back and continued searching. “Maybe he is just a guy. Maybe he was just trying to contact my mother. Or Ophelia.”
“Why would he want to contact—”
“Ophelia,” I said again.
I held the yellowed Chronicle newspaper clipping in my shaking hands, staring into Ophelia’s eyes. She was young, with a printed jumper and pigtails, but her eyes were still the same, vivid, even through the pixilated and fading print. The last time I had looked into those eyes she had vowed to kill me and now there she was, snuggled up against the man who was supposed to be my father, the man who was supposed to have been photographed with me on his knee.
“Lawson?” Alex whispered.
I dropped the newspaper clipping and took the stairs two by two. I was vaguely aware that Alex was behind me, calling to me, but something drove me. I darted down the hall, pushing open doors as I went. I paused at the last door and sucked in a breath. Closing my hand on the knob, I pushed the door open.
It was a young woman’s room, but still held the pale pink remnants of little-girl life. The frilly lace lampshade was now partly covered by an orange and black Giants baseball cap. The rolling pink teddy bears on the wallpaper were now mostly covered by concert posters, magazine clippings, and photographs of smiling teenagers, their arms entwined, their youth captured forever. The fresh, bright smell of freesias still hung on the air, their sweet scent making me nauseous.
“This was Ophelia’s room,” I said slowly. “This is where she grew up.”
A yearbook was askew on her night table, its binding creased and old, as though someone had leafed through the book often. Alex picked it up and it fell open. He turned the book to face me.
There, with a demure look as she stared over her shoulder, was a full-page photograph of Ophelia. Underneath, it read: In Memory of Ophelia Szabo: a bright light gone out much too soon.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Oh my God. She was my sister.”
Chapter Eighteen
I felt a coil of anger in my stomach. “Did you know?”
“No, Sophie, I swear. How would I have known?”
“You dated her, Alex! You dated her and you didn’t know where she came from before?”
I was spitting mad now, feeling the emotion roiling through my veins. I was standing up, cornering Alex. “How could you not have known?”
Alex put his hands on my arms, holding me at arm’s length. His eyes were hard, cold. “I didn’t know, Sophie. Angels in grace don’t have any knowledge of the circumstances of their death or anything that happened before it. Time moves differently there. There is no way I could have put this together.”
I knew he was right, but I balled my hands into fists anyway, felt the tears spring into my eyes. I looked around the room, looked at the sweet pink sheets on the still-made bed, at the photographs of Ophelia and my father sharing family moments—at the beach, under the Christmas tree.
“He knew me and he didn’t want me,” I sobbed. “He knew how to be a dad, he just didn’t want to be one to me.”
Alex put his arms around me and I crumbled into him, sobbing, hiccupping. “I don’t care, I swear,” I sobbed. “He never even tried to find me.”