The Curse of Redwood (Ivy Grove #2) - Jaclyn Osborn Page 0,16

had a thing or two to learn.

“Haven’t you already read everything there is to know about the mansion?” Ben asked.

“Only what I could find online,” I answered. “I’ve never come in here. When I was in school, teachers had to literally drag me into the library. I hated it so much. It’s so boring.”

A smile touched Ben’s lips. “You’re a walking contradiction. You hate reading, but you love research.”

“Not all research,” I said. “Just spooky stuff.”

“What are you wanting to look up first?” Ben walked over to the computer at the end of the row.

I pulled up an extra chair and sat beside him. “I already know when it was built, but I never saw anything about the original owners. That’s who the legends say triggered the curse.”

“Well, there are records of families from Ivy Grove dating back to when Theo lived. I’m sure they go even farther back too.” Ben pulled up a site and typed something into the search. His fingers moved so fast over the keys my eyes crossed as I tried to follow. He paused. “When did you say the mansion was built?”

“The 1840s.”

Ben nodded and typed something else. He then pulled up a photo of what looked to be an old deed. Instead of being called Redwood Manor, the words Warren Estate were written at the top.

“Warren?” I asked. “God. Where have I heard that before? That’s what the little boy called Z, but I feel like I knew it before then.”

Then it hit me: Ezekiel James Warren. That had been the name from my dream! As impossible as it seemed, I had somehow seen into Z’s past—or what I assumed was his past. The puzzle pieces were slowly sliding into place. But what did it all mean?

“What?” Ben asked, arching a brow at me.

“Does it say anything else about the Warren family?” I leaned toward the monitor, trying to read the small print on the deed. I sucked at reading cursive writing, though. “Did they have any kids? Grandkids? How long did they live there?”

“Let me look.” Ben’s fingers clacked at the keys before he brought up another page. “It says here that Arthur James Warren purchased the home in March of 1842. His wife was named Emeline, and they had one son. Oh wow.”

“What?

“Their son, Norman, fought in the Civil War at eighteen and was killed. Emeline grieved so heavily that she ended up taking her own life. Arthur remarried a woman named Alice Parrish in 1864, and they had a son named Ezekiel the following year.”

So, it’s true. Ezekiel was real.

I felt the blood rush from my face, and despite the warm temperature in the room, a chill passed through me.

“When did Ezekiel die?”

Ben pressed his lips together, and his brow winkled as he scrolled through the information. “Hmm. That’s weird.”

“What is?”

He tore his eyes from the screen to look at me. “It doesn’t say anything about Ezekiel’s death, and he’s not mentioned anywhere else in the article. Maybe he’s listed in the death records.” A few clicks later, he pulled up another page. We spent thirty minutes searching through the names and still didn’t find anything.

“Do you think Florence would know anything?” I asked. “She helped you find stuff on Blackwell Manor, right?”

Ben nodded and scooted his chair back. “I’ll ask her. Come on.”

I followed him to the side of the room where Florence was shelving returned library books.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Cross?” she asked, once seeing us. Whether subconsciously or not, she smoothed down her red hair.

I did my best to hide my smile.

“What might be the reason a death wasn’t recorded?” Ben asked. “I would understand if it was during war time or a plague when death tolls skyrocketed, but that doesn’t seem to be the case here.”

“Whose death are you looking into?” she asked suspiciously. Then, she beamed with a smile. “Is this for a book you’re writing? Oh, I was so thrilled when you found Theo Blackwell’s journal and finally let his truth be known.” She looked at me. “Mr. Cross helped solve a century old missing person’s case, you know.”

“Really?” I asked, playing dumb. “He should get a medal for that.”

Ben bumped my shoulder before smiling sweetly at her. “I appreciate the praise, Florence, though it is certainly misplaced. Theo is—er, was the person who told his story. I just helped pass it on to others. As for my question… this could very well be for a novel.” He leaned closer to her.