Ivory Butterflies

By Campbell Colby

It was the fire that started it all. Or rather, the idea of someone starting the fire.
Julia and Heather spied a shadowy figure darting through the smoke-filled halls of their burning high school. James had seen it too. After that night, the three students decide they will do whatever it takes to catch the suspected arsonist. Together they discover hints and clues pointing to something truly sinister going on behind the staid exterior of Norwood Academy. In a confusion of cryptic messages, burglaries, hidden passages, abandoned hideaways, and kidnapping, the mystery of the ivory butterflies begins to open its wings. But as the investigation unfolds, the three detectives begin to wonder whether they are truly ready for an adventure that will put their freedom, their friendship, and even their lives at stake.
Are you ready to spread your wings and fly?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665705073

Campbell Colby

Campbell Colby was born in the Bronx and raised in Westchester County, NY. She abandoned her private school education in kindergarten and has been happily homeschooling ever since. She finished this book at age fifteen, working faithfully every day for over a year to resolve the mystery of the Ivory Butterflies, before finally presenting the completed manuscript to her family.

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Copyright © 2021 Campbell Colby.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced

by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage

retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in

the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover Art by Elena Parr © 2021

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0506-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0507-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021906641

Archway Publishing rev. date: 7/15/2021

Contents

Heather

Julia

Norwood Academy of Refinement

The First Day

Rescue

How it Started

The Note

James’ Bookshelf

The First Break-In

The Machine

1900

The Plan

December

Heather’s Mistake

Christmas at Norwood Academy

New Year’s Gala

North, South, East, and West

The Second Break-In

Back to the North Wing

New Moon

Caught

Butterflies

The Eavesdropper

Spring

Pinn Harbor

The Speakeasy

April Showers

Ms. Lorman’s Speech

The Summer Festival

One Last Try

The Summer’s Beginning

The Realization

Back to School

James

Mexico

Glass

How it Ended

About the Author

For Macke

nzie:

No matter what, I will always love you.

Tetelestai

Heather

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T he damp morning started with a shiver. Heather Cook stood alone by her window, resting her hands on the wooden frame. Cold air rushed through the creaky, old farmhouse and Heather shuddered in its wake.

It hadn’t been a good night. In fact, Heather felt more unloved than she ever had before which, given her unfortunate fourteen years on this earth, was definitely saying something.

Heather’s life had been a mistake—at least, that’s what she’d been told and made to feel every second of her life since the day she had been born to a struggling, chain-smoking mailman and his wife.

Mr. Cook was a gambler of the worst kind. A reckless man, he was willing to risk all he owned and all he didn’t in pursuit of the elusive hand that would prove him victorious over the cards that fate had already dealt.

Just prior to Heather’s birth, he had lost nearly everything the Cooks owned. Scrambling to make ends meet, he began drowning his troubles in spirits.

His wife, who had left her comfortable lifestyle with her mother to marry Mr. Cook, learned to do the same.

Having a child presented financial hardship and responsibility the man could hardly fathom, and he had resented Heather from before she was even born.

Plain, gentle, and meek, Heather was completely undeserving of the abusive parents to whom she had been born. Day after day, she would work at the tasks the couple demanded of her, knowing failure to complete her chores would mean a belt to her back. Despite Heather’s tireless attempts to win her parents’ affection, they never expressed any compassion toward her. She was unloved and alone.

Heather never understood why she was so despised; she never acted out or objected to her parents’ unreasonable demands. But still they treated her like a servant, their stony hearts holding only hatred for her. As a result, Heather grew timid, and learned to slink back into her frail body in hopes of walling herself off from the vile couple.

Poor Heather had devised countless plans to escape the wrath of the Cooks over the years, but she never acted on any of them. Her parents had filled her head with lies, telling her that she was a broken creature, and that the world would devour her before she could even turn back home. They told her that she was lucky they kept her and that they expected no more of her than any family would. It took the poor girl eleven years to finally open her eyes and see things as they truly were. Heather’s incomprehensible compassion for her parents was the reason she never sought help. Though she was mistreated and abused so viciously, she hadn’t the heart to see them locked away.

The only person who seemed to care whether she lived or died was Heather’s grandmother, her mother’s mother. She loved that woman more than anything else in the world. Every weekend, to her parents’ constant displeasure, the cheery, old woman would insist that Heather spend the night with her, showering Heather with the love she deserved and so sorely needed.

The two hatched a plan for Heather to live with her grandmother permanently. Not surprisingly, the suggestion was flatly refused by her parents; no amount of pleading could persuade them. But then one day, to Heather’s unspeakable delight, the Cooks grew weary of her grandmother’s reasonable arguments and finally gave their consent. Heather could hardly contain her excitement, running home that night to pack up what little she had.

The next morning Heather awoke brimming with anticipation. She quickly dressed to meet her grandmother at their agreed upon time of half-past eight and then sat happily at the kitchen table, for once not minding the sound of her parents bickering, knowing it would be the last time.

An hour passed, two, then three, and her grandmother was nowhere in sight. That afternoon, Heather tried to distract herself by pulling weeds out of the little flowerbed in front of the tired old farmhouse. Wiping sweat off her brow, she looked up into the hot afternoon sun. Her grandmother was still nowhere to be found.

As Heather climbed into bed that night just short of midnight, she had still heard nothing from her grandmother and began to fear the worst.

The next morning, Heather lay on the loosely stoned path outside the house, resting her chin in her hands and watching a Viceroy butterfly—the mock monarch—flutter aimlessly about the lawn, trying her best to drown out the questions drumming in her head.

The front door slammed open, and Heather’s head shot back to see who had come out. Her father stepped down off the porch and staggered over to the girl. Heather turned back to her butterfly which had landed on the path in front of her.

That was Tom Park, he stated, taking a long drag from his cigarette and thrusting it into the garden Heather had worked so hard to maintain, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose.

The girl froze, gripped by a sudden chill. Tom Park was her grandmother’s neighbor. What did he want? she asked feebly. The butterfly remained fixed to the ground despite her father’s aggressive approach.

Your mother wants to tell you inside, Mr. Cook snarled, stumbling over.

Tell her I’ll be right there, Heather stalled, trying her best to stay calm and still concentrating on the butterfly that stood bravely ahead of her.

She wants you now.

I just want to memorize the wings of this butterfly, Heather answered in a quivering voice. All she really wanted was to delay the news she knew was inevitably going to come.

You will obey your parents, Heather! the man exclaimed. Get in the house!

Please, just give me a minute! Heather begged.

You are the most incompetent, pig-headed, stubborn creature to walk the earth! the man spat. Get in the house! Now!

Heather rose. But Father! she implored. Mr. Cook had had enough and in a fit of anger he stomped his foot down on the butterfly and dragged it across the slate stones. Father! Heather shrieked in horror, watching as his boot lifted revealing a near-lifeless creature pinned to the walk, batting its wings feebly in an attempt to escape. She bent over and scooped up the insect, sobbing profusely.

Get in the house, her father mumbled, walking back toward the open door.

Heather’s warm tears dropped onto the butterfly’s lifeless wings as she sank to the ground in shock, grieving over what had taken place. But it wouldn’t be the only death Heather would face that day nor the most significant.

Just as she had known in her heart, Heather’s beloved grandmother had died. And it was well time, Mr. Cook spat, draining the remaining whiskey from his glass. That old woman was nearly eighty-four—too old if you ask me. Heather tried her best to contain the tears that were welling up in her emerald-green eyes. But after fighting against them for well over an hour, she finally burst up from the table and rushed off to her room.

Heather cried for hours and sobbed long after her eyes went dry. To her parents’ great displeasure, Heather remained locked in her room for two weeks after that awful morning, relying on the books her grandmother had given her over the years to provide a mental escape from the wretched world in which she was now trapped.

Finally, one hot and stagnant June morning, Mrs. Cook managed to unlock Heather’s thin, termite-eaten bedroom door. Heather watched in horror as it swung open to reveal a disheveled and clearly drunk woman stepping into the tiny attic room. Heather inched up in her bed, hoping that the slight change in position might somehow protect her.

Get up, Heather, her mother commanded. We have company. Fear gripped Heather’s mind, but grief and loss still hung over her heart like a thick, black curtain rendering her too weak to move. Are you deaf girl? Stand up! the woman spat. Heather didn’t move. In the name of all things right and good child, get up!

Heather sat completely still. Mrs. Cook had always been slightly manic and in a wave of violent anger, she snatched up one of the books Heather had stacked by the door. Winding up all her strength, she launched it at the girl. Heather shrieked in both terror and pain as the corner of the textbook hit her forehead with blunt force. Her gaze dropped as crimson blood dripped onto the dingy sheets below her. She touched her face lightly to feel the extent of the wound, which bled heavily. Heather’s face from that moment on would bear a burgundy scar just above her right eyebrow, like a nick or a scratch that never went away. The wound was large now, but over time would become much smaller, no bigger than the cap of a pen. And it would remind Heather every day of the hatred her parents felt for her.

Mrs. Cook stormed over to the girl and angrily grabbed her arm, the woman’s uncut nails digging into Heather’s pale skin and forming deep, red marks. Heather fought against the grip, but her mother, though staggering and dizzy, was stronger. She dragged Heather out of her bedroom and into the hallway.

Heather was met in the kitchen by a tall, clean-cut man holding a brown leather briefcase. He wore a cold expression, but that was nothing new to her. Heather Cook? he asked, eyeing the girl’s wound.

The man’s question hung in the stale, smoky air. The ticking of the clock suspended above their heads sounded like faraway footsteps.

Answer him! Mr. Cook commanded, gripping his coffee cup.

Heather wiped blood away from her forehead and stood to her full height. Y-yes? she stammered.

I am the lawyer for your grandmother’s estate, he began. Heather bit down on her jagged, dirty nails, a nervous habit she could never seem to break. The man set a neat stack of papers down on the rickety kitchen table, and the collection of near-empty bottles of alcohol, also on the table, jostled and clanged together as the surface wobbled. He pointed to a paragraph marked in red ink. Read here, he instructed. Heather leaned in.

After a moment, she covered her mouth. $400,000! she exclaimed in an excited, shaking voice. For … for me!

That can’t be right, her father objected gruffly as he doused his cigarette in the coffee mug he was holding and shoved his way over to the document. Surely the money was meant for August Cook, the woman’s daughter? Heather’s mother readily nodded in agreement.

No, the man assured them, it says here: Heather Cook.

It must be a mistake! Mr. Cook said angrily.

I can promise you sir, the man said with authority, no mistakes were made.

The man looked over at Heather. Since you are still a minor, Ms. Cook, your parents will hold the money in trust for you and manage it on your behalf until you are eighteen, when you will be of legal age to inherit the sum. Mr. and Mrs. Cook, who had been barking at the man throughout the conversation, suddenly fell silent.

You mean I’ll have full control over the money until the girl’s eighteen?! Mr. Cook asked finally. The man didn’t answer. So, I can spend it, until then, as I see fit? I mean … for her care and upkeep, he added hastily.

Heather remained fearfully silent, standing in the far corner of the little kitchen, chewing down her thumbnail.

The man adjusted his tie and huffed, clearly annoyed at her father’s behavior. As the custodian of the property held in trust for Heather you have a legal obligation to manage the money with her best interests in mind.

English please, Mr. Cook demanded.

No, you can’t.

The man turned back to Heather. Your inheritance does have one precondition, he said, speaking over her parents’ screaming and ignoring their spiteful comments. Your late grandmother shared with me on many occasions what an extraordinarily bright young lady you are. I suppose she didn’t want that mind of yours to go to waste. So, in her last amendment to her will she stipulated that $300,000 of your inheritance be set aside for your enrollment at the Norwood Academy of Refinement, should her passing happen when you are of age to attend. Everything is already in order.

Turning to her parents he said, We just need your signatures, here and here.

Heather’s eyes suddenly lit up. Oh … oh my gosh! she exclaimed. She really did do it! She always told me that she would get me into that school, I just can’t believe she would really do it! A joyful tear slid down her pale cheek.

Absolutely not! Heather’s father protested. You will do absolutely no such thing!

Heather looked over in dismay. What? Why?

"There is work to be done here; I’m not going to do it, and neither is your mother!"

I’m sorry, said the man, running out of patience. Perhaps I should come back in a few days, leave you some time to figure things out.

No! Heather protested. Her parents looked up in disbelief. "It’s my money. I will go, whether you approve or not! Grandma was the only person in this world who cared for me and now she’s gone. But she’s still the only one caring for me, doing your job! I’m going to that school and if you try to keep me here, I will fight. And I will never stop fighting. Do you really want to live with that?"

Silence fell over the little kitchen. Heather stood in shock; never before had she fought back against her parents, not like that. But the look on her father’s face made her instantly regret it.

Fine, Mr. Cook spat, breaking the silence. "Go if you choose, but so help me, if you ever show up at this house again—mark my words Heather, as soon as you step foot out of this house, you will be disowned."

What about the money? Heather asked, in a high, nervous voice.

I don’t care! the man screamed. "If that old hag thought you smart enough to go to a fancy boarding school, surely you can figure out how to handle it! But hear this Heather: no amount of money or education will ever make you amount to anything. You are nothing and you will always be nothing!" With that, Mr. Cook grabbed his wife’s hand and yanked her out of the house.

Hot tears burned in Heather’s eyes as she watched her parents storm out, leaving her alone with her father’s cigarette floating in his coffee cup and the perplexed lawyer. She had always been aware of her parents’ hatred toward her, but never before had she felt it so keenly.

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Now Heather stood watching the rain fall. It was September tenth, 7:22 a.m. In eight minutes, she would take her suitcase and start a new life.

The night before, her mother had pulled up all her bedding, explaining illogically, It’s a cold night, I need to keep warm. You are such a clever child; you can keep yourself warm. This made no sense to Heather, but there was no point in arguing with these last words her mother would speak to her. She watched her mother strip her bed without saying a word.

But it wasn’t the cold that kept Heather up that night. It was the fear. Fear of something she had wanted her whole life.

Freedom.

Julia

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J ulia Fletcher woke with a start, her alarm clock wailing shrilly, dashing the silence of the morning to pieces. She reached a hand from under her covers, searching wildly for the little timepiece to