Secrets Read online

  “Maybe Padre knows.” Dominic clutched a seatback.

  “Knows what?” Father approached the group of girls, who all shifted their gazes from him back to the mysterious painting.

  The guys rejoined the group, everyone waiting in silence as Father studied the picture.

  “Do you know who painted it?” Phoebe said.

  Father gave Phoebe a strange look. “No, I don’t. None of you know?”

  The next week, Caitlyn arrived early, meeting the cleaning man in the hallway instead of bumping into him inside the room. With a childlike smile, he signed something to her at the door.

  “Thank you.” She assumed he meant for her to go first, but he continued signing as she bounced into the room. Her mind boggled at the thought of trying to interpret his gestures.

  “Come quick!” Kiara twirled her hand. The Fire Starters had gathered around the painting.

  Not giving the cleaning man a second thought, Caitlyn rushed over. As she glimpsed the painting, her stomach flipped.

  It had changed. The faceless figures sat and stood in the same places, but shadows indicated frowns and downcast eyes.

  “All the people look sad,” Kiara whispered.

  Peter and Keefe backed up to let the cleaning man by—he signed something to them too—then they closed in on the painting.

  “Wasn’t the sky lighter outside?” Peter squinted one eye.

  “Yeah, it was,” Roland said.

  “And your shadow’s bigger.” Peter smirked.

  Roland elbowed him.

  “So who is our mystery artist?” Dominic stepped outside the group and peered from face to face. “It must be one of us in this room, like a practical joke.”

  Caitlyn and several others turned to Peter, the best candidate for a practical joker award.

  Peter’s mouth fell open. Then he gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, right. You think I painted that?” He flung a hand out. “Now if something were rigged up to dump paint on kids as they walked through the door, I’d accuse me, too. But an actual painting? I’m all about stick figures.” He turned a sly eye to Caitlyn, redirecting everyone’s gaze. “Caitlyn’s the only artist I know.”

  She wanted to shrink away. “I didn’t paint that! I do landscapes and animals. I can’t paint people any better than you can.”

  Everyone continued to stare, some of them through eyes narrowed to slits.

  Caitlyn shook her head. What else could she say to prove her innocence?

  “You paint.” Dominic pinned Keefe with an accusing glare, and everyone turned to Keefe.

  Caitlyn exhaled, relieved at the shift of attention.

  “Don’t you, vato?” Dominic called his friends vato, Spanish for dude, but his tone didn’t sound too friendly. Neither did the way he edged into Keefe’s space.

  “Uh.” Keefe’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I paint abstracts.”

  “This is abstract.” Phoebe folded her arms. “See? No faces.”

  “My work’s way more abstract.” Keefe glanced at Caitlyn as if calling on her as a witness.

  Caitlyn shrugged. She’d seen a few of his abstract paintings, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t paint like this. “It’s the same size canvas you use, isn’t it?” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like an accusation, but several kids nodded and whispered to each other. She’d only been thinking how she painted miniatures and he painted on larger canvases.

  His face turned carnation pink. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. But I didn’t . . .” He shook his head again, visibly unsettled.

  Roland stepped forward and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable. “Keefe didn’t paint that.” Or was he looking guilty?

  “How do you know?” someone asked.

  “Because he said he didn’t, and my brother doesn’t lie.”

  Comments rose from the group, everyone challenging Roland.

  “No, it’s true,” Caitlyn shouted above them. Her words had turned everyone against Keefe, so she needed to straighten things out. “I don’t know a more honest person.”

  “How can he be so honest with a twin brother who is so dishonest?” A look of challenge glinted in Dominic’s eyes.

  “Hey, yeah,” Peter said. “How do we know Jarret didn’t sneak in here and paint this? In fact, I saw Jarret’s hot red Chrysler 300 drive past St. Michael’s just yesterday.”

  Keefe spun to face him and raised a hand as if to shove, but he stopped himself and ran his hand through his hair. “Leave Jarret out of it.” He always came to his twin’s defense, regardless of whether Jarret deserved it. “What reason could he have?”

  “We all know he doesn’t like us,” Peter replied.

  Keefe’s jaw twitched, then his gaze shifted to Roland.

  And doubt flickered on Roland’s face.

  Caitlyn sucked in a breath. Yes, it could’ve been Jarret!

  “Maybe you painted it.” Phoebe jabbed a finger at Dominic. “You seem to like conflict. Maybe you wanted to see what secrets would come out from this. More gossip to spread.”

  “I take offense at your accusation,” Dominic said. “Do you paint?”

  “We all paint.” Phoebe gestured to indicate the entire group. “We’ve all had art in school. Any of us could’ve painted this. So instead of trying to unveil the artist, we should try to find out what the painting means. Why no faces? And why do they look different today?”

  Everyone turned back to the painting.

  “Okay, so it’s darker outside and everyone looks sad,” Peter said.

  “Right,” Phoebe said. “Why did the painting change?”

  “And what will it look like next week?” Keefe said, somewhat ominously.

  Before anyone spoke again, Father breezed into the room. “Okay, group. Sorry I’m late.”

  No one replied. Other than Caitlyn, no one had taken their eyes off the painting.

  A stack of folders and binders in his arms, Father stopped between a couch and the coffee table and scanned the room. “Did a new kid stop by?”

  “A new kid?” Caitlyn scanned the room with him, discomfort prickling her skin at the unreasonable fear of finding a stranger hidden somewhere, someone she hadn’t noticed upon first entering the room.

  Finding no one, she took a breath.

  Father’s gaze found the painting and his head jerked back. “Looks different today, huh? That’s interesting. I wonder—” He set his armful of folders down.

  “What’s this?” He lifted a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Leave room as you found it. Put furniture back in place.” He looked at the way the teens had arranged the furniture. “Okay, we can do that, right kids?”

  The group broke away from the painting and straggled toward the furniture, a few of them mumbling less than enthusiastic replies.

  Peter bumped Caitlyn as he passed. “They got a janitor. Let him do it.”

  “Yeah, isn’t that his job?” Dominic said.

  Caitlyn felt a twinge of guilt, but Mom always expected her to leave the Fire Starters meeting on time. She couldn’t possibly hang around to rearrange the furniture. Before she took her seat, she scanned the room one last time. Who could’ve been watching them?

  “Shall we get started?” Father clapped his hands together. “We’ve got a lot to talk about today.”

  “Bye!” Caitlyn slung her purse strap over her shoulder and opened the door of Mom’s van. This was it! Roland had called them all together mid-week. Well, not all of them. Just the kids in the painting. Anxious to learn what he’d discovered, she jumped out of the van and slammed the door. As she turned toward the school, something tugged her skirt.

  She glanced back and found her skirt caught in the door.

  Mom gave her that knowing look through the window.

  Caitlyn smiled as she cracked the door back open. “Oops. See you later.”

  “When your meeting’s over, don’t make me wait. I have an errand to run after I pick you up.”

  “Okay.” A twinge of guilt pricked he
r conscience. Not only had she made Mom wait last time, talking too long with her friends, but she hadn’t helped put the furniture back in order either. She hadn’t even thought about it until just now. Surely, someone else took care of it.

  Caitlyn turned and bolted up the steps to the school. She yanked open the door and darted into a dark hall, colliding with . . . someone.

  “Oh, sorry.” Caitlyn stumbled back.

  A boy about her age stood before her. It was the same boy she’d seen around St. Michael’s on Fire Starters’ meeting nights. He rolled his eyes, hefted an olive-green backpack over one shoulder and walked around her.

  “Sorry. Really.” Burning with embarrassment, Caitlyn bit her lip and watched him go. Had he been talking to Father again? Father had seemed to want him to try something last time she saw them. Maybe he’d wanted the boy to join the Fire Starters.

  She sighed and forced herself to walk, not run, down the hallway. Had Roland discovered the artist? Maybe it was the boy she’d just bumped into! Maybe Father Carston had talked with him to find out why he’d painted it. Could he have a reason for not liking their group? They welcomed everyone. Non-Catholic friends even came to their events sometimes. He could be a member if he wanted.

  If Roland didn’t know, they would have to investigate.

  A burst of excitement tempted her to sprint the last stretch, but as she turned a corner, she gasped and put on the brakes.

  Slow and steady, the janitor pushed a mop bucket toward her down the hall. His gaze connected with hers, and he stopped.

  Glad she hadn’t taken off running, Caitlyn waved “hello” and started to walk around him.

  He opened his mouth and lifted a hand, as if he had something to say—or sign—but as she kept walking, he simply waved back.

  A single voice traveled down the hallway, Peter hollering about something.

  Kiara flew out of the Fire Starters’ meeting room, her eyes wide open. “Oh good, you’re here.”

  “What’s the matter?” Caitlyn took Kiara by the arm and led her back into the room.

  Halfway across the room, Kiara’s arm went rigid and her gaze locked onto the painting. She stopped. “Look at our faces.”

  The guys stood studying the painting.

  Caitlyn squeezed between Roland and Peter, who both glanced at her. She meant to give them each a smile, but her gaze fell on the painting and her blood turned to ice. It had changed again. Tears ran down faces. Darker smudges had been painted where eyes and mouths should go. Night had fallen in the picture, and all the windows looked like dark mirrors that reflected eerie faces. It reminded her of Edvard Munch’s famous painting, The Scream.

  Caitlyn shuddered.

  “Weird, huh?” Peter frowned.

  Roland leaned behind Caitlyn and whispered something in Peter’s ear. Peter mumbled back, and then he turned to the group. “Okay, let’s all take a seat.”

  Caitlyn just realized that someone had arranged the couches around the painting. She sat on one end of her favorite couch. The one she sat on in the picture.

  Her skin crawled. She should’ve sat somewhere else. Too late now. Kiara sat beside her and everyone else took seats.

  “Couch, not windowsill.” Peter gestured to Phoebe. “We need a group discussion.”

  She huffed, stomped into the arrangement, and plopped down on Kiara’s other side.

  Peter sat on the arm of a chair, the way Father often did. “Okay, so Roland snuck up here today—”

  “I didn’t sneak.” Roland glared. “And I’ll speak for myself.”

  “Oh really?” Peter smiled, seeming pleased to have annoyed him. He flung a palm up and slid into the armchair. “Okay, Detective Roland, speak for yourself.”

  Roland stood and sunk his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to check on the painting, so I came up here today. And I found that.” He nodded toward the painting. “That’s why I called everyone together. There’s a message here, and I think we can figure it out.”

  “How do we know you didn’t change it?” Dominic sat on one end of the second couch, next to Keefe.

  Roland rolled his eyes. “I didn’t touch it.”

  “We’re not here to point fingers,” Keefe said. “We’re here to understand what it means.”

  Caitlyn pulled a notebook from her purse, dropping her lip balm and brush onto her lap. She dug for a pen.

  “Right.” Peter sat straighter. “So what’ve we got?”

  “Well.” Roland squinted at the painting. “First off, why don’t the people have faces?”

  Caitlyn jotted down “no faces” in her notebook.

  “Maybe faces are too hard to paint. I could never do it,” Dominic said.

  “Is that why you left them off?” Phoebe smirked.

  Dominic leaned forward. “Are you accusing me?”

  Phoebe laughed.

  “No one’s accusing anyone.” Roland lifted a hand. “We need ideas.”

  “Maybe there’re no faces because the figures could be anyone.” Kiara looked at Caitlyn while she spoke. “Maybe they aren’t meant to be us, but we were the models.”

  Thinking the idea worthy, Caitlyn jotted it down in her notebook.

  “You could be right.” Caitlyn dropped her pen but resisted the urge to grab Kiara’s hands. They would look just like they did in the picture. “But who’s watching us often enough to use us as models?”

  Roland glanced over his shoulder.

  Peter looked too. “Okay, let’s not get paranoid. What’s the second point?”

  “Why have they changed?” Roland said.

  “Reminds me of The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Keefe said.

  “Dorian Gray?” Peter guffawed. “So that’s a reflection of our souls?”

  “That’s not what the story means.” Phoebe folded her arms.

  “Oh, yeah?” Peter smacked the arms of his chair. “So what’s it about? Why did the painting get uglier the more the dude sinned?”

  “Oscar Wilde—that’s the author—,” Phoebe said, “was making a statement that the purpose of art is to have no purpose.”

  “So that’s why he wrote the book, huh?” Peter let out a laugh. “Sounds like he had a purpose.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “He didn’t want people thinking art was only for moral enlightenment.”

  “Art should have a purpose.” Keefe bounced one leg and glanced around the room, maybe looking for someone to agree with him. “You ever see famous Italian works? They can really move you, make you think, lift your thoughts. Artists like Michelangelo, Botticelli, Da Vinci, and Raphael.”

  Caitlyn gave him a smile. He’d told her all about his trip to Italy with his father and the museums they’d visited. It sounded like quite an adventure.

  “Are you talking about Ninja turtles?” Peter smirked. “We need to talk about our artist and our painting.”

  Mouth half open, Keefe shook his head. “Artwork, good books, they should have a message.”

  “So what’s the message for us?” From her seat on the couch, Caitlyn studied the painting. “If we’re all Dorian Gray, what are we doing wrong? It’s been changing every time we see it, looking sadder and sadder.”

  “Okay, self-examination time.” Peter stood and paced, rubbing his chin. “Who doesn’t like us?”

  Roland sat down next to Keefe, seeming content to let Peter take over the discussion.

  “What is not to like?” Dominic said. “We pray together and we help people, like when we helped the Finns with their new house.”

  “And we do fun things,” Kiara said. “Do we leave anyone out?”

  “We leave out all kinds of people.” Peter stopped pacing and spread his hands. “We’re a teen group, so we leave out the young and the old. We’re here in the Black Hills, so we leave out everyone else on the planet. And we’re Catholic, so we leave out everyone of every other faith.”

  “We don’t leave them out.” Kiara sounded defensive. “They can come if they want.”

  “Well,
we do Catholic-y things,” Peter said.

  “Well it’s not like we’re discriminating against anyone,” Caitlyn said, in support of Kiara. “Besides, can’t a group be for specific people?”

  Roland gazed at the painting. “What about the time of day in the painting?”

  Caitlyn looked from him to the dark windows in the painting. She shivered.

  “It’s darker outside every time we see it.” Roland’s gaze shifted to a window and he did a double take.

  As Caitlyn turned to the window, she glimpsed a figure outside in the dwindling light. He dodged behind one of three parked cars in the church parking lot before she got a good look, but she did notice that he wore jeans, a white shirt, and a dark backpack. It must’ve been the same boy she’d seen before. Maybe she should tell the others about him.

  “Right. Darker outside.” Peter spun to the painting. “It started off in the evening, like when our group meets, but now it’s pitch black. What comes next?”

  “And our faces looked normal in the beginning,” Kiara said, “but now we’re all sad.”

  “Why are we sad?” Keefe asked. “Maybe the artist is sad.”

  “Maybe some psychopath is going to kidnap and torture us.” Peter glanced at the group over his shoulder and waggled his brows. “And we’re almost out of time.”

  “Nice.” Roland shook his head.

  “Well, what’ve you got? You’re not offering any ideas.” Peter looked Roland over slowly. “You called us together. You must have something. What’s the deal?”

  “Maybe the artist is sad,” Kiara said, sounding sad herself. “Have we hurt someone’s feelings?”

  “If we’re Dorian Gray,” Keefe said, “we should be thinking of our faults.”

  “Back to confession, then, huh?” Peter smirked.

  “Is Father coming tonight?” Keefe glanced at the door.

  “No, Father’s not coming.” Peter returned to his seat on the arm of the chair. “This meeting is for us. We’ve got to figure this out. So, taking Keefe’s idea, if we do any self-evaluation, we do it here. Together. Who wants to go first?”

  Roland’s gaze shot to the floor. Keefe checked his phone. And Dominic looked at the girls.