There was no one left to talk to, except Jude. I didn't know where to turn with all the questions that were boiling inside me. If I wanted my friend to get completely better, I'd have to tell him everything I knew. Mr. Black liked him, so maybe Jude would know how to make the old man happy. I wanted to get the entire problem out of my hands; I wanted to put it in Jude's. I was tired of Moss Lake, of the house next to it, and of the man who lived there. I was tired of everything. I didn't want to care about any of it ever again.

The day after I spoke with Mrs. McBride was Friday, so Jude and I were supposed to go to Mr. Black's house. I had other plans, however. I went through the woods with him after school, just as if everything was normal. When we reached the old stump, though, it was my turn to stop him.

Even though Jude and I had been talking more easily to one another since we were spending more time together, I had serious things to discuss, and I was afraid I couldn't get started on my own. That's why I needed the help of the stump.

After the two of us had scaled the bark, Jude frowned at me. "Why are we wasting time? We have to get to Mr. Black's."

I was gaining courage. I could feel my feet sucking it up from the golden rings beneath them. So I wasn't too afraid to say, "No. I'm not going there today. I need to show you something."

Jude might have been a little annoyed, but if he was, he didn't show it. He only stood there, the white skin of his face contrasted against the dark backdrop of the forest. Stepping closer to me, he asked, "What's wrong?"

I started to talk. "I never told you – and I'm sorry – but I know why Mr. Black is so miserable. See, a while ago, before we met him, I learned that there was an accident in the lake right outside his house. Somebody drowned there a really long time ago, and right after it, Mr. Black shut himself up inside his house and sold his car. He didn't let anyone near the lake, and he wouldn't even go into town for groceries. Martin Switchett takes him his food. Anyway, what I didn't know was why Mr. Black was so sad about the whole thing. Of course it's terrible when somebody dies on your property, I suppose, but it was pretty extreme for him to become so mean and lonely over it. I wanted to find out who had died, but I couldn't find any of the newspaper articles from that time. Eventually, after I looked and looked, I kind of forgot about it. Then just this Monday, I found the missing articles in Mr. Black's house. Do you remember when I went into the kitchen?" He nodded slowly. "Well, I was looking for paper towels, but I found this." Saying that, I took off my gloves and pulled the terribly crumpled newspaper clipping out of my pocket, where it had been for several days. "Here," I said. "Take a look at this." I handed the article to Jude.

His reaction to it was much different than what I thought it would be. I expected him to show some sign of shock or surprise at the fact that the woman was Mr. Black's daughter. But Jude startled me by what he did.

Holding the picture close to his face, he studied it hard. Then I watched his eyes move across the lines of type as he read the article. I waited patiently for him to finish. He took his time, though, and I began to wonder whether he was reading it through a second – or even a third – time. What was taking him so long?

"It's his daughter!" I finally cried, my patience worn thin. "Don't you get it? The lady who drowned was Mr. Black's daughter. That's why he's so sad!"

With one quick motion, Jude tore the black-and-white clipping straight down the middle. Then he ripped the halves into quarters, and he kept tearing until nothing but little squares remained. Opening his hands, he let the scraps fall. I watched in confusion as they fluttered downward, the folds of newspaper flipping back and forth like live things until they came to rest on the old stump. When I lifted my gaze to look at Jude, I saw that he had tears in his eyes. The only times I'd seen him cry were right after he played, and this wasn't one of those times. I didn't know what was wrong with him.

"I have something to show you, now," he said softly. I heard a controlled fury in him; it made me scared and sick at the same time. I wanted to respond, but I couldn't. Jude walked past me and slid down onto the ground. He waited for me to follow him, and even though I was strangely reluctant, I did.

Without any words passing between us, Jude and I turned away from Mr. Black's house. Neither of us was concerned with that old man at the moment. He was as far away from my thoughts as my mother was when we passed by the school. I was only wondering about Jude. He had so quickly reverted to the way he was a long time ago, when I'd first met him. Secretiveness had swallowed him again; I could practically see a protective sphere of unwillingness around him as we walked. Why was he so changed? What had made him so upset? I could only guess, and even then my thoughts were too wild to be real.

Jude took me all the way back through town, across the divided main street, and through the alley to the field between the fences and the woods he lived in. Then he turned right and continued on in the direction of his house. I knew the route well, but because I was feeling so uneasy I wasn't able to concentrate on where I was stepping. The leafless trees around me melded together and the ground became blurred. All I could focus on was Jude, who walked in front of me.

At length, we reached the shed where his piano was. Since we'd been going to Mr. Black's house, I hadn't seen Jude play the instrument in the tool shed. Maybe he hadn't had to.

For a minute, I thought that Jude was going to sit down on the bench and start to play. Instead, he knelt down on the ground and lifted off the top of the piano bench. He had never opened the bench before. I strained to see what was inside. From where I stood by the door, I caught sight of sheets of music and other papers. Jude moved around so that he was blocking my view. I heard him shuffle through some papers, and then he turned back to me. There was a large, rectangular photograph in his hands. He had it pressed against his chest with the picture side facing him.

I was curious, but I didn't say anything. I waited for Jude to show me the photograph. Soon enough, when he was closer to me, he did. The picture was of a man, a woman, and a child. Several moments of silence passed before I realized what exactly I was looking at. The woman was Rebecca Black, that was obvious. I didn't quite know the man, although there was something familiar about him. And the baby – well, it was just a dark-haired, dark-eyed little baby . . . and then I knew.

"Is . . . is that you?" I stammered, pointing to the child. He blinked carefully, then nodded his head. "You mean . . .? Where is this picture from?" My shock was just beginning to sink in.

"I've always had it," he replied quietly.

Abruptly, I was angry. "You mean that this whole time you knew Mr. Black was your grandfather, and you didn't even tell me? You didn't say anything about it, even once?"

He shivered and turned the picture back toward himself. "I didn't know," he said, sounding more like he was talking to himself than to me. "I never knew it . . . never. No one told me . . ." The cold in his voice grew a little harder as the words came out.

I wanted him to be better; I really, truly did. But now I was afraid that he would make himself worse if he thought about his dead mother. That's why I tried to never think about my father. I refused to, and I had to show Jude how to force his thoughts away too. He would only hurt himself more by thinking.

"Put it away," I ordered. Jude stared blindly at me, holding the picture close. He didn't do what I wanted him to. "Jude," I said more forcibly, "put it away." He took a step back from me, shaking his head. Fury rose in me like a tiger, barring its fangs. "Put it away!" I shouted. "Now!"

With that, I lunged at him. Jude moved aside, but I caught the photograph's corner and with one sharp pull I tore it in two. In my hand, I held the half with his mother on it. My stomach lurched. I hadn't meant to do it – I'd only wanted to help! When I looked at Jude, I was frightened by the way he was looking back at me. The white rage seething behind the black holes of his eyes was enough to outmatch any anger that I'd ever felt. His hands were shaking in fists at his side as he said between clenched teeth, "I – hate – you."

Words didn't even form on my tongue. The fear inside me wasn't half as pressing as the dismay. My only friend was telling me he hated me. It was just as it had been in the beginning, before Jude told me anything, before I'd really heard him play. He hated me. It was like no time had passed. The only difference was that I had become more like him: I hated myself too.

I guess it was lucky for me that, in the moments when I was struggling to find something to say, Mr. Wood stepped into the doorway of the shed. I don't know whether Jude was angry enough to hit me, but I was glad that I didn't have to wait to find out. His father was tall and thin, like Jude, but he didn't have his son's dark hair. When the man entered the shed, he made it a hundred times smaller. Just his presence was enough to fill an entire house with worry. "What's going on here?" he asked.

Jude looked away from his father. He wasn't going to say anything. I'd never felt so awkward. Mr. Wood glanced sharply at me, then back to Jude. His eyes were clear and frosty. They weren't dark, like his son's. I was more afraid of him than I was of Mr. Black, even. In that moment, I would have run if it were possible. But it wasn't; the man was blocking the door.

"I said, what's going on here?"

Jude still refused to answer. Something had to be done. Shaking terribly, I held out my half of the picture I'd torn. Mr. Wood stared down at me, then at the photo. His expression didn't change at all, but he took the picture slowly out of my grasp. As he studied it, I thought I saw some flicker of warmth flash across his features. If I had, though, it soon disappeared. "Where did you get this?" he demanded of Jude. I wondered why he wasn't asking that question to me. After all, it had been in my hand.

The only thing Jude did was hang his head. He persisted in his silence. I had never felt so out of place. I knew that I couldn't stay--shouldn't stay. Talk would pass between them that I didn't want to hear. I had to leave. Pulling myself together, I scooted past Mr. Wood and out of the shed. They watched me go.

Had I been a braver friend, maybe I would have stayed. As I moved farther away from the shed, from Jude, and from his father, I felt a surprising jealousy twist into my heart. I hoped Jude's father was furious with him. I hoped that they never spoke to each other again.