A minute later, she followed me into the parlor. As I straightened magazines, she brushed her fingertips over the leather chairs, the stone fireplace, the wood coffee table, and even the stained-glass lamp, as if taking it in by sight wasn’t enough. She went to the bookshelves, ran a finger over the spines, scanning the titles. She removed Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.

“Have you read it?” She said it with so much hope, I was tempted to lie. I shook my head. “You must!” She tucked it under her arm. “Of all the Brontë sisters’ novels, it’s my favorite.”

I learned a valuable lesson about Logan that day. My mumbled yeah was interpreted as “Yes, Logan, I’d love to read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” Twice a year since, thanks to her calendar app, she asks how far I’ve gotten.

Okay, I fully admit, a year ago I thought I’d get away with watching the BBC miniseries, but Logan wasn’t having it. “Nice try, Crawford. But the series decimated Helen’s strength of character and it failed to mirror the authenticity of Anne Brontë’s revolutionary feminist novel.” She waved the book at me. “Read it, then we can talk about it.”

I pick up my pen, open my copy to the bookmarked page, and begin to read.

Two minutes later, my flip phone buzzes with a text. I hate texting on this thing. It’s a tedious pain in the ass, but it’s all our budget could afford.

LOGAN: Well? What did your mom say?

ME: Haven’t asked

LOGAN: It’s important.

ME: I know. Gtg

It’s been over a month since we had guests stay at the inn. Our upstate New York town during winter doesn’t attract many vacationers. This wedding party is a big deal. I never should have promised Logan I’d meet her before school tomorrow to speak with Mr. Bartley. But what choice do we have? There’s no way I’m going to present arguments in favor of murdering Jews. If we can’t convince him to change the assignment, I’ll take an F.

I glance at the photo sitting on my dresser in a frame Grandpa made. It’s of the two of us outside the inn. His arm is over my shoulder and he’s smiling at the camera. I’m looking up at him.

Nana always says that I’m the spitting image of Grandpa and that we’re a lot alike. Would I have had the courage to hide a Jewish boy, help him escape, when I was twelve?

A sharp rap on my door makes me jump.

“Cade?”

“One sec, Mom.” I brush the crumbs off my shirt and scramble to open the door.