Dead.
I back up into Connolly and then twist, and his arms go around me.
“I didn’t want you to see that,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “It’s fine.”
It’s not. Not fine at all. But there’s no way in hell I’m retreating and forcing him to deal with this horror on his own. I take a deep breath. Then I head back in, keeping my gaze away from the woman’s face.
A flicker to my right. I glance over and see the ghost of the girl from the painting.
“Oh hell, no,” I mutter.
I dive for the discarded shielding blanket before she flies at me. I scoop it up and then Connolly’s there, taking it and running. I see the painting in the corner of the room. The ghostly image appears beside its painted twin. He throws the shielding blanket over the frame, and the image vanishes.
I hurry over and help him wrap the painting. Then we turn back to the woman in the chair. She’s in her thirties and has long dark hair with blue streaks, her fingernails painted the same shade of blue.
“Rosa,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “I think it’s—”
“It is,” says a voice near the door. We look to see Athene walking into the apartment. “That is Rosa.”
There’s a bottle of pills on the floor beside the dead woman. Athene walks over and bends to examine it.
“The painting backfired?” I say. “It killed her— No. She was texting me an hour ago, and she’s been dead . . .” I swallow as the smell wafts over us. “She’s been dead much longer.”
“She’s bound to the chair,” Athene says. “With one hand freed.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she means. I stagger back. Connolly catches my hand and squeezes.
Someone bound Rosa to that chair with a bottle of pills, in a room with a painting that would inflict suicidal thoughts.
Athene straightens, clearing her throat, matter-of-fact tone returning. “She has been dead for several days.”
“Meaning she didn’t send any of those texts,” I say.
“She also didn’t switch out the Crying Girl painting,” Connolly says.
It takes that a moment to register. It seems as if we went after that painting days ago, but it was just last night. Rosa was already dead.
Pounding footsteps sound in the hall. Athene lunges past us and runs out, leaving us both hurrying after her. We reach the hall to see her blocking Mercy. When her sister goes to pass, Athene grabs her arm. Mercy tries to throw her off, and Athene yanks her to the wall, pinning her there.
I back up into the doorway, out of sight, my heart pounding. In that moment, I don’t see Athene and Mercy. I see Ani and myself five years ago. I’d been at college when our dad died, and Ani had climbed into the car and driven for three hours to give me the news in person, pushing aside her own grief to make sure I wasn’t alone when I heard.
I should have broken down in her arms, weak with gratitude as I sobbed for our father. Instead, somehow, my brain insisted it was a mistake. Yes, Ani was mistaken, and she needed to stop this nonsense, stop saying these things, get out of my way and let me straighten this out.
Ani had to physically retrain me, just as Athene is doing to Mercy now. Their voices dimly penetrate the fog of memories, intertwining with the past, me telling Ani she’s wrong, Mercy telling Athene the same.
It’s a mistake. A misunderstanding. Get out of my way, and let me solve this.
Ani didn’t get out of my way. Neither does Athene. Connolly stays behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat of him, and I resist the urge to lean back against him. He’s there, and that’s enough. Athene is there for Mercy, and that too is enough.
It only takes a few minutes for Mercy to surrender. To accept what lies in the next room. She still wants to go in there. Athene won’t allow it, and again, eventually Mercy gives in. She wants to be tough enough to face it, as I did a few minutes ago. But Athene is right—this is not how she should remember her friend and lover.
When I finally move into the hall, Athene is telling Mercy she’ll look after arrangements for the body. Mercy only nods dumbly. Then she glances my way.
“We’ve shielded the painting,” I say.
More mute nods. Then she says, “Are you all right?”
“We didn’t know her.”
“I mean the curse. Did it activate?”
“Yeah. But we’re okay. I’m sorry about Rosa.”
She takes a deep breath. “She got in over her head. Someone made her an offer, she sold me out, and they double-crossed her.”
“Are you sure of that?” Athene says. “When did you last see her?”
“Three days ago.” Mercy seems to physically summon energy to continue. “She’d rented a room in Boston to . . . to be near me while I was in the area, and to help with my thing with Kennedy. I dropped off the painting three days ago.”
“The fake painting,” I say. “With the fart jinx.”
Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. “Yeah, she gave me shit for making her keep it in her hotel room, but I was busy with . . .” A look at Athene. “Our thing.”
Mercy continues, “That’s why I needed Rosa to plant the painting. I knew it might take a while for you to bite at the eBay listing, Kennedy. In the meantime, I was helping Athene. When you bit, I processed the sale and played Ms. Silver while Rosa planted the painting.”
“When did you last speak to her?” I ask.
“The night I dropped off the painting. Otherwise, it was all messaging, and I was busy, so not much of that. I let her know when you’d taken the bait. I didn’t want the painting in that house early. Kids had been using it.”
“But since Aiden only bought the painting yesterday afternoon, that means Rosa was already dead when you messaged her to put up the painting. How did you message her? I thought you didn’t have a phone.”
She gives me a look. “I’m communication-resistant. I’m not a technophobe. I could message her online.”
“Did she reply?”
Mercy shakes her head. “Not until the painting . . .” She frowns, as if thinking. “She sent me a photo of the painting when it was in place and then one of you two at the house. They went to my message service, so I didn’t get them until this morning.”
“That couldn’t have been her,” I say. “Yes, she might have been working with her killer, but it’s even more likely she was a victim here. Whoever killed her also switched the paintings and—”
“And we’ll figure all that out,” Athene cuts in. “I need to look after Rosa. Mercy and I will find whoever is behind this and stop them. You two will go home.”
“Uh, no,” I say. “We’re part of this. I am, at least. Whoever does have the paintings has made me their messenger.”
“I’m resolving that,” Mercy says. She takes a cell phone from her pocket. “May I see your phone, Kennedy?”
I pass it over, and she opens both phones and sends the prepaid cell’s number to the person messaging me. A moment later, a text dings on the new phone, and she answers it.
“There,” she says. “Messenger no more. Athene’s right. You two should go home. Leave this to us.”