Chapter 43
The loaf of Italian bread is eaten down to a crusty nub.
Next to it sits a chef’s knife Luca used to cut the bread because Mamma accidentally donated my bread knife to Goodwill.
The serving bowl of Luca’s Legendary Linguine sits mostly empty in the middle of the dining room table, although I couldn’t stomach a single noodle.
Not because Luca can’t cook—he’s an idiot in the real world but a genius in the kitchen—but because the photograph has made me lose my appetite.
Mamma begins clearing the table while Luca, Freida, Ivory, and I gather in the dining room, the plates licked clean and wine glasses topped off.
I leave the corkscrew and extra bottle of unopened wine in case we need it.
After the past few days I’ve had, I’m not convinced two glasses of wine are enough to dull my nerves.
Ivory sits next to me on one side, and Freida sits stiffly beside my brother, arms wrapped around herself while he rubs his hand in circles on her back.
While Mamma collects empty plates and silverware, I grab the small pile of Wren’s photos and dump them onto the table.
The stack fans out in a creepy collage of my past couple weeks, like a serial killer scrapbook made just for me. This might be exactly what it is.
Sliding the top photo into the center of the table, I draw it out from the rest. The photo captures the day Wren came for her private photography lesson, where both of us are standing on my porch. Obviously Wren didn’t take this picture. But that’s not the strangest part of it.
“Okay, if you look closely,” I try to sound calm but instead sound like someone who should never be in charge of a hostage negotiation, “what do you notice about this picture?”
I point out a subtle glare that reflects a faint face hidden behind the camera in the foreground of the picture. In the background behind the face is the image of Wren and I standing on my porch talking moments before she came inside.
“It wasn’t taken from right outside this house,” Luca answers. “It was taken from behind a window. Up there.”
He stands and walks to the living room window, then points across the street. Not at my mother’s car crookedly parked in front of the house, but at the house across the street. Fred and Ivory’s house.
“Specifically,” he adds, “that second-story window.”
“That’s my bedroom,” Ivory says. “Are you sure?”
I pick up the picture, examining it carefully. “I’m pretty sure. You can even see a smudge on the windowpane in the picture. And the downward angle definitely is from higher up, Ivory.”
Freida shakes her head, insistent. “No, that’s impossible. My dad would never do that. He doesn’t even like photography.”
“I agree,” I say. “That’s the weird part. Whoever took this didn’t use their phone. This was taken with a professional zoom lens.”
“But why you?” Ivory motions to the whole chronological collection of photos featuring me. “Why would someone be watching you specifically?”
“I don’t know.” As I say it, I can’t help but glance at the bookshelf.
“Maybe someone broke into our house to frame Dad for taking these?” Freida suggests, and I catch her gaze shifting to Ivory. “Obviously someone is out to get him since they already tried to pin that lady’s murder on him.”
“Maybe,” I waver, “but then there’s this.” I slide the Corvette purchase contract across the table toward Ivory.
“This is Wren’s car.” Ivory glances at me questioningly.
“Look at the date of purchase.”
She reads it aloud. “The same day I went missing.”
“So Wren bought a new car the same day Mom disappeared.” Freida gets up from the table, pacing as she’s thinking aloud. “And then someone used Dad’s bedroom to spy on you. But none of this makes sense…”
Not yet it doesn’t, but my gut feeling is that I’m close to unlocking the identity of Janet’s killer and my stalker.
One detail could be the key to finding out who exactly is behind it all.
I just need to root out that detail. And soon.
But even if I figured it out, the bigger question is how do I deal with it?
I’m convinced that my suspect list has narrowed considerably.
Zala and Ali don’t have any motive, so I’ve crossed them off my list. Fred’s only crime was cheating on his wife and disappointing his daughter, which they only found out about because of me.
Is that enough reason to stalk and harass me?
People have killed for less, so I can’t rule him out for at least some of what’s happened.
Simpleminded Wren is an unlikely mastermind, probably blindly coerced by ex-boyfriend Marshall for a big payday.
But Gillian has plenty of reason to come after me for the evidence I have against Ramsey, and to kill Janet, who was investigating her.
Plus her car is the one that hit me. Her son Marshall could have easily been persuaded to aid and abet her, since I am the reason his father is dead.
There’s still the matter of the professional quality picture taken from Fred’s bedroom.
I know Marshall was in Fred’s house, and Gillian could have slipped inside at some point too.
But I’m forced to rule them out as I pick up the photograph, noting its tacky residue that reveals it was developed in a darkroom, but rushed and sloppily.
This photo was underwashed and air-dried without proper rinsing.
An amateur mistake by someone who knew what they were doing but didn’t have the time to finish.
I rub my temples. My head feels like a computer overheating.
“Someone wants to pin that private investigator’s murder on my dad,” Freida says, covering her face with her sleeve, “but I know he would never do this. He just wouldn’t.”
I exchange a glance with Luca.
“Then we’ll figure out a way to prove his innocence.
” I want to promise her this, but ultimately getting involved only puts me at greater risk of getting caught for my own crimes.
“Something is happening around him, maybe involving him, maybe not. But someone is using your dad for something bigger.”
“Bigger?” Ivory echoes. “How much bigger?”
I stare down at the photos. At my face. At my windows. At the angle from Fred’s bedroom.
Then I consider the dent in Gillian’s car, along with Gillian and Wren’s matching sweatshirts. But most importantly, I dwell on the largest piece of evidence I still have that I know Gillian wants.