Chapter 44
I collect the photos into a neat stack and set them aside, unable to look at them any longer. Freida props her hands on his hips, and Ivory exhales a long, exhausted sigh.
“Okay,” Luca says, slapping his thighs before stretching his lanky arms upward. “My brain is fried. I’m going to go grab some dessert before we all lose our minds completely. Freida, want to come with me? Some fresh air might help.”
Freida nods, shaky but seemingly relieved at any excuse to escape. She glances at Ivory—seeking permission, maybe.
Ivory strokes her daughter’s hair. “Go with Luca, sweetie. Bring back whatever doesn’t look like Wren baked it.”
Freida manages a weak grin and follows Luca out the door, and I notice their hands brushing against each other, then clasping together.
I hope to God this doesn’t rekindle their forbidden romance.
My mother offers to take Zoomie on an overdue walk, since he’s spent the better part of the past hour resting his slobbery jowls on every lap hoping someone would drop food.
Now it’s just me and Ivory, like the good ol’ days before her disappearance and my constant state of dread. Except it doesn’t feel like the good ol’ days at all. It feels like I’m with a stranger.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Okay. It just you and me now. Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Ivory trains her eyes on her hands in her lap. “Shar, I’m as confused as you are.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ivory. I know it’s you who took the picture of me from your bedroom, and who broke into my darkroom and left that note.”
She’s sitting close enough for me to grab her hand and flip it over. I’m not focusing on her wrists, though. I’m more concerned with her cracked and discolored fingertips.
“Your fingers tell me everything I need to know.”
Only Ivory could have shot the photo from her bedroom, and not just because of the skill level needed to execute this type of long-distance shot. But because of her cracked fingertips.
“That photo was waxy, Ivory, which is a telltale sign of rushing the development process. You’re the only one who knows how to develop film, though you should know better than to rush. That’s why your fingertips are messed up—the fixer solution damaged your skin.”
“I swear it wasn’t me.” Ivory closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her cheek.
“You’re still going to deflect? If it wasn’t you, then who?”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” she insists.
“Stop with all of the vague excuses and lies! This picture proves you were watching me, Ivory. Hardly anyone else in my classes knows the difference between a camera lens and a paperweight. But you do.”
Her head snaps up.
“But somehow Wren ended up with that photo. So when I start to connect the dots, Ivory, you are at the center of everything that’s been happening.
First you disappear, then someone stalks me, and Janet Vick ends up murdered.
But what I don’t know is why you’re after me. What did I do to piss you off?”
Her hands grip and tighten on the edge of the table.
“Shar—” Her voice is too controlled. I feel something shift, like a blade sliding out of its sheath.
“Was it all about revenge?” I’m a runaway train who can’t stop talking. “Were you angry with Fred about the affair and blamed me for telling you?”
“Stop.” Her voice deepens with a dark warning.
“I know you. You’re someone who hates being underestimated. And I know you were still angry about your ex’s betrayal. But that had nothing to do with me. So why target me?”
Ivory stares at something on the table. Her jaw twitches and her hands slowly move from the table’s edge to resting flat on its surface.
“You know what? If you’re not going to tell me, let’s let Detective Yankovic sort it out.” I pick up my cell phone and start dialing. First the 9, then the 1, then—
A stupid move, I realize too late.
Ivory jumps up suddenly, the chair grating violently across the floor.
Her hands are reaching for something—it happens too fast—but I’m too slow.
Two different weapons are within her grasp, and within less than a second she’ll be holding either a knife or a corkscrew. Or if she’s a quick draw, both.
“Iv—” I begin to plead, but her hand is already grabbing the knife without hesitation. For one suspended second we stare at each other before she lunges. The knife slices through the air, and the overhead light flashes against the blade.
“What are you doing?” I scream, stumbling backward as the pointed metal arcs toward me, catching on my sleeve and shredding a hole in it.
Her face is not scared but desperate, and her desperation is fierce.
“You don’t understand!” she cries, propelling the knife forward again.
And I realize that no, I don’t understand. Not yet, but I’m about to. If I survive the next three seconds.