“What is it?” she asked.
He looked up at her. Those blue eyes focusing in on her face. “It’s a news alert. Camille Vorhees was just released from the hospital.”
She launched forward, snatching the phone out of his hand.
“Oh my God,” she breathed as she stared at the photo on the screen. There was Camille, looking elegant and exhausted on crutches. She wore an ivory cashmere coat and black trousers. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek twist.
Relief coursed through Remi as she zoomed in. Camille’s delicate face looked very pale and very thin. She looked fragile and glamorous and lovely and very much alive.
The screen blurred, and Remi swiped at a stray tear that escaped.
“Why do you have a news alert set for Camille?” she asked.
He looked at her long and hard. “Because she matters to you.”
A keyed-up Remi locked the door of the cottage and leaned against it. Camille was out of the hospital. In any other situation, it would have been incredible news worth celebrating. But in this one, it meant she was in a whole other kind of danger.
She pulled off her coat and boots and paced the floor in mismatched socks, her head spinning.
On a whim, she picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts.
“Need someone to post bail?” Her brother-in-law sounded haggard but amused.
“Hey, Kyle. I don’t need bail, but I do need some hypothetical lawyerly advice,” she said, wandering around the dining table.
“I’ve got five minutes before court reconvenes. Hit me.”
“Say a bad guy did something bad, but no one knows he did it, and no one knows he’s bad.”
“Okay. Squeaky clean bad guy. Got it,” he said over the din of voices.
“Say a good guy knows the bad guy committed the crime, but no one is listening to her. I mean him.”
“Unreliable witness,” Kyle filled in.
“Yeah. That. How does an unreliable witness protect herself and the victim of the original crime if no one believes her? Or him,” she added.
“What kind of crime are we talking here?”
She tapped her fingernails to her teeth. “Let’s say something along the lines of attempted murder.”
There was a pause on her brother-in-law’s end of the call. “Remi, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she insisted, forcing a laugh. “I’m just helping a writer friend work on her thriller.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t use your scary trial lawyer voice on me, Kyle Olson. I held your leg while you did keg stands at your law school graduation party.”
The background noise on his end was getting louder. “You swear this is fictional?” he pressed.
“Cross my heart,” she lied.
“Then the good guy would need to either find evidence that the bad guy committed the crime, or he’d need to find evidence of another crime the bad guy committed.”
Remi stopped pacing. “You’re saying a bad guy doesn’t usually just commit one crime.”
“There’s almost always a pattern,” he said. “Shit. Listen, I gotta go. Call me later.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sure,” she said and hung up.
25
On a dissatisfied groan, Remi stared down at the half dozen sheets of watercolor projects she’d started and abandoned.
After an entire day of relentless internet searches, social media snooping, and meticulously documenting every insignificant find she’d marched over to Brick’s house in the dark to clear her head and try her hand—ha—at some painting. But it wasn’t what she craved. The colors were all wrong. The layering was impossible. She needed the texture and color she was used to.
Throwing down her brush, she rolled out her shoulders. Sitting and slumping over a work table wasn’t exactly her speed either. Especially not after an eternity spent hunched over a laptop.
She got up and tossed her supplies in the sink, watching as the colors melded, turning into a dark, ugly purple before swirling down the drain.
A distraction. That’s what she needed. Something to keep her from obsessively checking her phone for a message from Camille. Something to get her mind off her friend trapped in a house with a monster.
She wasn’t going to find that here. She could tell by the flicker of light on the door that the TV in the living room was on. Brick was on call tonight, so he was probably polishing his uniform boots or something equally anal.
Family, she decided. Family was fun.
Digging her phone out, she checked the time. 10 p.m.
Her niece and nephew would be in bed, but Kimber was a notorious night owl. Surely her sister would enjoy some company?
They still hadn’t really talked since she’d come home. She’d been remiss in her sisterly duties. Kimber was obviously going through something, and maybe this was the opportunity Remi could get her to open up about it.
The best way to forget about her own problems was to immerse herself in the problems of others.
She left the brushes to dry on the bathroom vanity, shut off the lights, and bundled herself out the door into the backyard.
The night sky was crystal clear, lit by a half moon and millions of pinpoints of light. She already felt better about her idea. She’d pry it out of Kimber, and they could figure it out together. Reclaim the connection they seemed to have misplaced.
She tiptoed up the street past her parents’ house. Old habits died hard. At least she didn’t have to shimmy up the trellis this time.
Her sister’s place, an adorable bungalow in daffodil yellow, was just one block down on the opposite side of the street.
It was the place her sister had dreamed of owning since she was a little girl. Remi was so proud the day Kimber and Kyle signed the papers she’d sent them a Welcome Home mat for the little front porch and demanded a picture of it as soon as it was in place.
Her dad had snapped a picture of Kyle carrying her sister over the threshold like a bride. One foot on the mat and one foot in the door.
She stepped up onto the porch and found the mat was still there.
Welcome Home.
It was worn now. Frayed around the edges. Some of the letters were fading under the abuse of sidewalk salt.
But it was still there.
She was about to knock when she heard a noise from around back. It sounded like the back door opening and closing.
Remi tiptoed off the porch and followed the walkway around to the fence.
She heard the flick of a lighter. Eyebrows raised, she knocked at the wooded gate. “Psst! Kimber?”
“Remi?” she heard her sister say.
“Yeah. Want some company?”
There was a hesitation that pained her. Not only had they lost their connection, her sister seemed like a stranger now.
She let out a breath when the handle on the gate jiggled, and it swung open.
“Holy shit. Are you—”
Kimber stood in plaid pajama pants and a black parka. “Smoking? Yes. I am. You can withdraw the judgment.”
She blinked. “I’ve just never seen you do anything…” Bad. Wrong. Inappropriate. Unhealthy. “Like that.”
“It’s my own little rebellion,” Kimber said flatly. “I thought you of all people would be proud.”