Chapter 75
LILY-ANN
After Anthony left for the store, Lily-Ann spent a minute staring out the window.
She didn’t know why she’d sent him away.
Well, no, that was a lie. She’d sent him away because she’d finally admitted that she loved him.
That frightened her. Needing him frightened her.
After Piotr, needing anyone frightened her.
Though perhaps that was a lie, blaming it on Piotr.
She’d never been comfortable needing people.
She’d always suspected that she did it wrong.
She was thinking about that when Mrs. B texted. She read the message and frowned. Mrs. B’s motivations made sense, but her logic rarely did. She was an odd combination of good intentions and terrible ideas.
As Lily-Ann considered her next step, she caught sight of Ocean jogging across the courtyard.
Heading for her car. Which meant that Mrs. B hadn’t only texted Lily-Ann.
She’d probably texted the entire Murder Collective, and sworn them all, individually, to secrecy.
Oh! This was the perfect opportunity to check for evidence.
So she slipped into her mules, grabbed her phone, and bustled out the door.
She caught Ocean entering her car and called, “Will you drive me?”
“Uh,” Ocean said.
“I presume we got the same message from Mrs. B.” She trotted closer, trying to catch her breath. “‘Hurry to the DeYoungs’ house and don’t tell anyone.’”
Ocean’s worry turned to irritation. “Treacherous old woman.”
“And Anthony’s got my car, so…”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Let’s go.”
Ocean muttered during the drive, working out her anxiety, but Lily-Ann didn’t listen. She was too busy considering this opportunity to search the DeYoung property. Not inside, naturally. No, she knew better than that. She needed to check the outbuildings. Well, one in particular.
As they entered Hope Ranch, Lily-Ann texted Anthony to explain her absence, and Ocean parked on the beach-facing side of the driveway.
“Wait until I get my hands on her,” she grumbled, as she stomped around the DeYoungs’ property.
Lily-Ann lagged behind. She eyed the low, sprawling mansion, then followed a path in the other direction, scanning the opposite edge of the estate for outbuildings until her phone rang.
“Lil,” Anthony said, when she answered. “Just got your message. You’re in Hope Ranch?”
“Yes.”
He grunted. “I’m already in the car.”
“Don’t bother coming. If only you’d learned how to pick locks.”
“Next time I’m incarcerated,” he promised.
She headed toward the sunken garden. “What do you need for meditation?”
“Um, I don’t know … a comfortable place to sit. Incense? Quiet music?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Quiet.”
He fell silent, like that had been a request.
“I don’t know if I’ll find anything,” she told him. “But this is a perfect time to look. I’ll see you later.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me?”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t end the call.
“Do you want me anyway?” he asked.
She felt herself flush. She felt her heart pound, and she said, “Yes.”
“I’m on the way,” he told her.
She cut the connection and crossed the sunken garden, appreciating the geometrical paths far more than the overblown flower beds.
The gravel crunched under her black mules and the cool air felt clean on her face.
The ocean spread spectacularly below her, a great expanse of blue.
She knew it wasn’t whale season, because Anthony watched them when it was, but she still lingered a moment trying to spot dolphins before returning to her task.
Because Miles had once announced that he’d decided that seeing them gave you good luck.
On the far side of the flower garden, a gravel track followed the perimeter of the property past a brick building tucked among the trees.
She went to the building, peered through a window, and saw two riding mowers.
Dozens of hand tools were arranged on hooks on a pegboard with silhouettes that showed which tool went where.
Nobody was inside, so she opened the door.
The scent of mown grass and gasoline wafted around her.
She gazed at a corner dedicated to what looked like irrigation equipment.
The interior was cleaner than she’d expected—no spiderwebs, no scattered dirt.
She admired the tidiness of the pegboard.
She wondered how that basic organizational model—shapes that indicated proper placement of items—might work in other contexts.
Then she returned outside. She poked around for a few minutes before she caught sight of a building flanked by yellow urns planted with young citrus and olive trees. There were no windows, which made sense for a backyard music studio, though she noted a row of skylights along the Spanish tile roof.
She checked the front door, then the back door. Both were locked, which wasn’t suspicious.
Still, she finally admitted to herself that she really did know what happened to Frank DeYoung. She knew who’d killed him and why. She was confident in most of her theory, but not this part, so she simply stood there, not dialing 911.