CHAPTER 1

“I still can’t believe we inherited this place,” Safi exclaimed as he looked out the window. Rain drenched the glass panel, and the leaves of nearby trees shook violently.

I sat on the expensive living room couch, leaning my back against a red velvet pillow. I couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

“I know, right? It all feels like a strange dream or—”

“A trick,” Safi cut me off as he sat down beside me.

Most people would be annoyed when interrupted, but when you have a twin brother, you get used to it—just like you get used to people never saying your name alone. It was always Safi and Insa. Never just Safi, and never just Insa. A brother and sister combo that could never be broken.

Despite being twins, we were completely different. Though on that day, we were thinking the same thing: How on Earth did we inherit a mansion?

“A trick,” Safi repeated, “where someone is pretending that our late relative Harriet Willburg left us an entire mansion in her will.”

“Yeah, it’s totally unbelievable,” I sighed. “Well, you know what? We’ve only been here for a couple of hours, and I already want to go home. I’m missing Mary’s 16th birthday party for this. And I’ll probably miss everything else my friends do because we’re so far away!”

“Sorry, Insa. I know how much you wanted to go,” Safi said. “And I get why you’re bummed about this whole mansion ordeal, but I would have thought Mama would be more happy about it.”

“I get what you mean,” I answered. “But Mama already has so much on her shoulders. She’s been working late nights, and now she has to go meet with the lawyer to discuss what to do with this house.”

Safi sighed. “I guess you’re right. I just hope she gets back home from her meeting soon. The guests will be coming any minute now, and I have no idea how we’re supposed to entertain them!”

Earlier that morning, when we first arrived at the house, we were greeted outside by a couple of locals in what felt like a welcome to the neighborhood-type of event. Mama wanted to be nice and invited them all to dinner. But right now, it was starting to seem like the guests would arrive before Mama.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Oh my!” I yelped.

Safi laughed. “Well, isn’t that perfect timing.”

As I moved to get the door, our new butler Peter Herring appeared out of nowhere and rushed past me.

“No need to fret, Ms. Hafiz. I shall welcome the guests,” Mr. Herring called out, already halfway to the front door.

“I still find it so strange that this house comes with a butler,” whispered Safi as we stood together and looked toward the entrance. “I didn’t know that it was a package deal.”

“He’s not part of a package deal, dummy. Remember what he told Mama this morning? He’s here until we decide what to do with the house. He said he doesn’t want to leave before everything is settled,” I explained.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like him. He weirds me out,” Safi complained.

“It doesn’t matter if you think he’s a little peculiar. Mama trusts him enough to leave us alone with him,” I pointed out.

Thunder rumbled outside, as if in tune with Safi’s doubts. “Look, Insa, I don’t care,” he said gruffly. “That guy gives me major creep vibes. Like, he’s so old and wiry. I’ve never seen him smile, and he’s always lurking in the background or hiding in his room in the attic. And every time I try to talk to him, he’s always so cut and dry and—”

Safi’s venting was cut short by the sound of our neighbor, Grace Freeman, shaking her umbrella as she walked into the room. She was dressed in the most expensive clothes I had ever seen—a suede top and bottoms, leather dress shoes, and a pearl necklace strung around her neck. She reeked of wealth.

“Dang, I didn’t know this was going to be a fancy dinner,” Safi whispered, looking down at his shorts and tennis shoes.

Behind Ms. Freeman was Steven Dona, the curator of the modern art museum in town. He was wearing a sweater vest and a pair of dress shoes so shiny you could see your own reflection in them.

Last to come in was Victor Vos.

“You remembered to put down the planks, right?” I asked Safi.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied.

Mama had told Safi to convert half of the outside stairs leading up to the house into a ramp so that Mr. Vos could easily roll his wheelchair to our front door.

“That is everyone,” the butler said. “Well, except your mother. She called a moment ago and asked that I set the table. You may take a seat in the living room, and I will let you know when supper is ready.”

And with that, the butler sped off to the kitchen.

Mr. Vos rolled up beside the couch while Mr. Dona and Ms. Freeman took a seat on it.

For a while, we listened to the sound of the rain pounding against the house as if it were trying to break in. Safi chatted with Ms. Freeman and Mr. Dona for a little while, then turned to a nearby radio plugged into the wall and put on the news.

But before the reporter could utter a word, the lights went out, plunging us into darkness.

CHAPTER 2

“Well, this is strange,” Ms. Freeman said a little too loudly, maybe because it was so hard to see.

We all sat silently in the dark until several mechanical clicks sounded and a few lights turned back on.

The radio started again and blared in a loud voice:

“Emergency broadcast alert: severe thunderstorm warning issued for the local area. Please seek shelter and stay indoors until further notice.”

Everyone in the room looked at each other in panic.

Mr. Herring came rushing back into the room. “No need to worry. It is but a power outage. The backup generator has turned on, so we have electricity. Dinner will be served shortly.”

“No, no, no,” said a panicked Ms. Freeman. “I have to pick up my son from his father’s house tonight. Oh, this will not look good in court.” She whipped out her phone and ran out of the room.

“Don’t worry, kiddos,” Mr. Vos said reassuringly to Safi and me. “It’s just a thunderstorm. It will pass.”

Ms. Freeman rushed back into the room. “I can’t get a hold of anyone. And I’m getting no bars,” she said frantically.

“That means the storm probably knocked down one of the cell towers. Guess the radio is the only thing we’ve got,” Mr. Dona pointed out.

Ms. Freeman slumped down in the seat beside me and put her head in her hands. She must’ve been really worried; I could see the sweat dripping down her neck.

But not just that. I got a closer look at her necklace. A handful of the pearls were turning silver. Or, to be more exact, the beads were turning silver. They weren’t real pearls, after all.

“I guess people aren’t always what they seem,” I whispered to Safi.

Mr. Herring rushed into the room again. “Dinner is served,” he announced before hurrying back to the kitchen.

Dinner was short. Everyone ate side by side, only saying a few words here and there. After dinner, we returned to the living room for tea.

Safi and I sat on the couch while the guests sipped their tea and ate the cake that Mr. Herring had made. Well, mostly it was just Mr. Vos cutting slice after slice of the cake and putting it onto his plate. He seemed to have a real sweet tooth.

Safi and I listened to the guests drone on about old people stuff like politics and taxes. My eyes searched the room for anything remotely entertaining and finally landed on Mr. Dona as he stood up—only to realize he was just telling Ms. Freeman he was heading to the bathroom. I groaned.

“I am capital-B Bored right now,” Safi yawned, turning himself upside down on the couch.

I nodded. “Same here. I wish we had service. I can’t even go on my phone. What are we supposed to do, play hide-and-seek?” I said sarcastically.

Safi abruptly turned to me. “Wait! What if we played hide-and-seek?”

“No way! Are you serious? That’s a kid’s game,” I protested.

“Oh, come on, Insa, it’ll be fun! Think about it: we’re in this giant mansion, and it’s all dark and spooky. It’s not a kid’s game if it’s scary,” Safi pushed.

I hesitated for a moment before giving in. “Fine.”

Safi and I played rock, paper, scissors to pick the hider and the seeker. Safi’s finger scissors cut my paper hand.

“Ha, that means you’re hiding,” Safi teased as he got up from the couch.

I sighed.

Safi put his head against a nearby wall. “I’m going to count to 300. You’d better be ready by the time I’m done. Okay, here we go. One, two, three, four…” he started counting.

I hopped out of my seat and ran up the stairs.

“Would anyone like another cup of tea?” I heard Mr. Herring ask the guests downstairs.

The butler’s room is in the attic, I thought. Better just avoid it so he doesn’t think I’m snooping around.

I walked through the first doorway I saw and entered an old bedroom. It was decorated with black curtains with a bed in the center of the room.

Looking around, I noticed a lit fireplace attached to one of the walls. What got my attention, though, was the strange-looking painting that hung above it.

It was a black canvas framed in gold. In the center was a mysterious old man holding a blue lantern as he entered a door that seemed to lead nowhere.

I jumped back. Okay, I’m fine with the room being a little spooky, but that painting is straight-up creepy. I’m out of here.

I was about to turn back and find a different hiding place when I heard the stairs creaking.

“Done counting already?” I thought out loud. Safi was coming, so I had no choice but to stay in the room.

Closing the door behind me, I looked for a place to hide. I could hear the footsteps approaching.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

As I began to panic, my eyes landed at the center of the room. The only option I have is to hide under the bed.

And that is what I did. I rushed under the bed and waited in silence. All I could hear was my heartbeat and the crackling of the fireplace. That was until the door squeaked open, and I saw a pair of shoes.

They were not my brother's shoes.

CHAPTER 3

Safi never wears dress shoes like the ones this person is wearing. Who is that? And what are they doing up here?

The mysterious figure slowly crept into the room, causing the floorboards to groan. One slow step followed the other as the shoes made their way over to the fireplace.

It’s so quiet. I hope they can’t hear me breathing.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp tearing noise and a sound like paper being rolled up. Then the floor creaked as the mysterious figure left the room. I flinched as the door slammed.

I stayed under the bed for a few more moments before I had the courage to crawl out.

I slowly opened the door and checked to see if the coast was clear before running back to where I had last seen Safi. The guests and butler were still seated in the living room while Safi was counting with his head against the wall.

“298, 299, 300! Ready or not, here I come!” Safi yelled before whipping around.

I could see the disappointment on Safi’s face when he saw me standing behind him.

“Oh, come on! I gave you so much time!” he protested.

“Shut up and come with me,” I whispered before taking Safi into a nearby bathroom so we could talk in private.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you just saw a ghost,” Safi joked.

I ignored his jab. “Did you see anyone leave the living room area?”

“What do you mean?” Safi asked.

“Just answer me,” I urged as I grabbed his shoulders.

“Okay, okay, calm down.” He brushed my hands off his shoulders. “Um, no. My eyes were closed, remember? Why?”

“Because someone went upstairs. I was hiding under the bed in one of the rooms, and a person came in and—” I stopped short.

In my rush to find Safi, I forgot to check what the mysterious figure had actually done in the room.

Grabbing Safi, I ran up the stairs and back into the creepy bedroom. I looked around, and there it was. Or wasn’t, in this case. The frame above the fireplace was now empty.

“Safi, someone stole the painting,” I whispered.

“What?” Safi asked, still confused. “Okay, explain from the beginning.”

I rambled to Safi about what had happened. When I finished, I slumped onto the bed and put my head in my hands.

“It’s okay,” said Safi, trying to calm me down. “We can just let the police figure this out.”

“No, we can’t,” I pointed out. “We don’t have phone service, remember? We can’t call the police or Mama. I don’t know what to do.”

“Um, how about we tell Mr. Herring?” Safi suggested, sitting down next to me.

“No way!” I shot up from the bed. “What if he was the one who stole the painting? Or what if it was one of the guests? No one knew I was hiding under the bed or that I saw the thief’s shoes. If we tell everyone that the painting is missing, then the thief might leave with it.”

“But no one can leave,” Safi said. “The big storm, remember?”

“Yeah, but we can’t force the guests to stay. They’re only here because they think it’s the safest option. If someone wanted to leave, they could,” I reminded Safi.

“You’re right,” Safi huffed. “I guess we’ll just have to crack this case.”

I nodded.

We walked up to the fireplace and looked at the picture frame. “Hmmm, it looks like the painting was cut out with something,” Safi pointed out.

“You’re right.” I reached out to touch the remaining pieces of canvas. “Ew, it’s sticky.”

Safi swiped his finger along a cut, gave it a quick sniff, and then put it in his mouth.

I recoiled in horror. “Ew! Safi, that is so gross. What is wrong with you?”

Safi shrugged. “Well, at least we know that the sticky substance tastes like sugar.”

I shook my head. “Okay, so we know that the thief had a sharp object covered in something sugar-like. What else?”

Safi and I looked around the room, the hallway, and down the stairs. Unfortunately, in the end, the sticky cuts were our only clue.

We walked down the stairs and paused at the bottom. “What now?” Safi asked.

I looked toward the living room. “We interview the suspects.”

CHAPTER 4

Safi rubbed his face. “Okay, so where do we even start?”

I thought for a moment. “Well, why would someone want the painting?”

Safi shrugged before his eyes shot open. “Oh my goodness, what if it was the butler? Maybe he just wants to see what he can grab before we sell the house. We should go investigate him,” Safi said as he turned toward the kitchen.

I reached out and grabbed Safi’s arm. “No way! We have to investigate everyone, not just who you think did it. I remember seeing dress shoes while I was under the bed. Since everyone here is wearing them, we have to talk to them all.”

“Well, except for Mr. Vos. He can’t even get up the stairs,” Safi pointed out.

I nodded, and we headed to the living room. Mr. Dona was sitting on the couch, and Safi joined him. The only other person in the room was Mr. Vos, sitting near a window.

I walked up to him and asked, “Excuse me, have you seen Ms. Free—”

Before I could finish my sentence, the window flew open, and a strong gust of wind blew into the room. I quickly ran to close the shutters and turned around to find a frightened Mr. Vos. His blonde hair was now pushed to the side, revealing a large scar on his forehead.

Mr. Vos hurriedly fixed his hair and let out a strained laugh.

“Don’t worry about that scar, kiddo,” he explained. “I got it when I was younger, and it hasn’t gone away since. It happened before the accident that put me in a wheelchair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. “Um, have you seen Ms. Freeman?”

“Well, she tried to call her ex-husband from the entrance hall. She might have gone there again,” Mr. Vos replied.

“Thank you,” I said before leaving.

I found Ms. Freeman near the entrance. She was standing on her tippy toes with her phone outstretched to the ceiling.

“Any luck getting a signal?” I asked.

Ms. Freeman turned her head, discouraged. “No. Not at all.”

“Is this about the whole court thing you mentioned earlier?” I asked.

Ms. Freeman hesitated before answering. “Yes. I am supposed to go to family court next week and am worried my ex-husband won’t split with me.”

“Split? As in money?” I asked.

“No, no. I don’t care about money. I have more than enough. I want us to split time with our son, so I don’t want the judge to have any reason to think I am not a good mother,” Ms. Freeman clarified.

As we walked back to the living room together, I noticed Ms. Freeman was clutching the pearl necklace around her neck.

“That’s a nice necklace,” I said.

Ms. Freeman looked down. “Oh, this old thing? My son gave it to me. He said I shouldn’t wear real pearls anymore because they belong to the oysters or something like that. It’s not the nicest, but it reminds me of him.”

I excused myself and headed toward the staircase where Safi was waiting.

“What did you find?” he asked anxiously.

I huffed. “Nothing. Ms. Freeman’s clean. She has money and only cares about her son. She wouldn’t risk a robbery if it made her look bad in court.”

Safi threw up his hands. “Mr. Dona was a bust too. I asked him about art, and he went on a whole rant about how sculptures are the best art form or whatever. I don’t think he’d care enough about this painting to steal it.”

“Then I guess it’s time we pay the butler a visit,” I said, walking toward the kitchen, which, surprisingly, we found empty.

We searched everywhere for clues. On the floor, in the cupboards, and even in the fridge. It wasn’t until I looked in the sink that I found something.

“Safi, look at this!” I called.

Safi turned to see the cake platter in the sink, and right next to it was a knife, still covered in bits of icing.

Safi gasped. “A knife covered in sugar.”

“You were right. It was the butler!” I turned to Safi. “He must’ve picked up the empty cake plate, used the knife to steal the painting, and then put it in the sink so no one would suspect anything.”

Safi shook his head. “We need to find the painting. If it’s not in the kitchen, then there’s only one other place it can be.”

I looked at the ceiling. “His room.”

CHAPTER 5

Mr. Herring’s attic was dark and smelled like dust. I turned on my phone’s flashlight.

As we looked around, I heard Safi call out, “Hey, Insa, over here.”

I walked to where Safi stood, unrolling a piece of parchment he had found in one of the boxes. It was a painting. Not the missing painting, though. It was a portrait of a young Mr. Herring beside a man and a woman with matching brown hair.

“Okay, so that’s Mr. Herring, and that’s Harriet Willburg, who left us this mansion. But who’s that guy beside them, and how did he get that scar on his forehead?” Safi wondered out loud.

“What are you two doing up here?” Mr. Herring shouted as he barged into the room. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

I shook. “We’re so sorry! Safi and I got lost and—”

“No! I will not be having any of this nonsense. Your mother will be hearing about this—” Mr. Herring stopped in his tracks when he saw the painting in Safi’s hand.

“Oh dear me, you found it. I have been looking everywhere for this,” Mr. Herring said, grabbing the painting.

I looked at Safi in confusion. “Why?”

Mr. Herring turned to me. “Oh, well, it is the only portrait I have with the Willburgs. I wanted to make sure I had it before I moved out. The paintings in this house may be valuable, but this is the one I find truly priceless.”

Safi and I shared a glance. “I’m a bit confused,” I started. “You said ‘Willburgs’— as in two of them? Is the other man in that painting also a Willburg?”

Mr. Herring sat down in a nearby chair. “Why yes—well, he was.”

Safi scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Herring sighed. “You see, his name was Harold Willburg, and he was Harriet’s twin—you know, just like you two. But Harriet was older by a couple of minutes. So when it came time to pass on their fortune, the Willburg parents gave everything to Harriet.”

“No way,” Safi gasped.

“Yes, ‘way,’” Mr. Herring mocked. “Harriet thought she deserved it all anyway; she was greedy like that. Harold was so furious—suddenly left with nothing—that he started to steal things from the house and sell them. When Harriet found out, she told Harold never to return. And he never did.”

“So that’s why she had to leave the house to a distant relative,” Insa whispered to Safi.

Mr. Herring wiped a tear as he looked down at his watch. “Goodness me! The guests are waiting. Hurry downstairs. I will put another kettle of tea on the stove.”

As he left, Safi turned to me. “I hate to say it, Insa, but I don’t think he did it.”

“Same,” I agreed.

But something felt off. It was as if the answer was staring me right in the face and I couldn’t see it. I looked back at the painting.

“Safi!” I suddenly yelled, pointing at the image of Harold Willburg. “Imagine him sitting in a wheelchair with blonde hair covering his forehead. Who does he look like?”

Safi looked straight at me, and we both said, “Mr. Vos!”

“Right!” I exclaimed. “Downstairs, the window flew open and messed up Mr. Vos’s hair. I saw that exact scar on his forehead!”

“Okay, but even if he is actually Mr. Willburg and not Mr. Vos, how do we know he stole the painting? The man can’t walk,” Safi objected.

“Well, some people who use wheelchairs can stand and walk for a short while,” I pointed out. “It all depends on their condition. Maybe this took place before his accident, or he was able to stand for the portrait.”

“Good calculation,” Safi said.

“If he can walk sometimes, he had the perfect opportunity to do so. Mr. Dona was in the bathroom, Mr. Herring was in the kitchen, and Ms. Freeman was in the entrance hall. So he could have easily snuck up to the bedroom.”

Safi jumped in. “You’re right! And remember how he wouldn’t stop eating the cake? He probably used that knife to cut out the painting before returning it to the cake platter!”

“Yes!” I squealed. “But we still need proof.”

Safi smiled. “Then we get proof. We have to show Mr. Herring that scar! He’ll be able to confirm that Mr. Vos isn’t who he says he is.”

After discussing our plan, Safi and I returned downstairs. As he went to the kitchen, I went to talk to Mr. Vos.

“Hey, Mr. Vos, can I show you something? The clouds are making an absolutely gorgeous pattern outside,” I said as I waved Mr. Vos over to the window.

Just then, Safi came in with the tea Mr. Herring had been preparing.

“Tea, anyone?” Safi asked before fake-tripping over the carpet and spilling hot tea all over Mr. Vos’s shoes.

Mr. Vos jumped in his wheelchair and screamed in pain. “Oh, you fool, how can you be so clumsy!”

With Mr. Vos distracted, I flung open the window, allowing the wind to blow in.

Mr. Herring ran into the room. “Is everything all right? I—”

He stopped as he saw Mr. Vos with his hair pushed to the side and his forehead scar revealed.

“Harold?” he asked in disbelief.

While Mr. Herring questioned Mr. Vos, I noticed a piece of parchment peeking out of the seat cover of Mr. Vos’s wheelchair. I unrolled it in front of everybody, and there it was—the painting.

Looking like a rat caught in a trap, Mr. Vos rolled toward the door. Mr. Herring, however, was much faster. He ran in front of Mr. Vos and blocked his path while Mr. Dona and Ms. Freeman cornered him from the sides.

“Okay, okay,” shouted Mr. Vos. “I give up! I was trying to steal so I could buy back what is rightfully mine! You should be giving me the house!”

As the storm cleared, Safi and I sat on the mansion steps while the guests left and the cops took Mr. Vos away.

We gazed at the star-filled night sky until we saw a blue car pull into our driveway. Mama stepped out of the back of the car and came running toward us.

“Is everyone all right? I’m so sorry! I got stuck at the lawyer’s office. Did I miss anything?” she said when she reached the steps.

Safi and I looked at each other. I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing much.”