By eleven, the director has thanked the last lingering donors, the quartet has packed up, and the janitor is wheeling out bags of trash that probably hold more uneaten food than the people at Hearth & Hands will see this week.
I catch Harper’s gaze across the room. Lift my brows.Time.
She follows me out into the parking lot, heels clicking in a rhythm that suggests she’s trying not to run.
“Your hotel or my place?” I ask.
“Yours.” No hesitation. That’s interesting.
Blake offers a ride. I wave him off with a smile that saystrust meand a look that saysdon’t follow.He’ll respect it—for now.
The drive is short. We don’t talk. Harper stares out the window at the black silhouettes of citrus groves and low chaparral hills, like the dark might offer her a better conversation partner.
At the house, I toss my keys on the counter, light a candle, and kick off my heels. Harper hovers by the couch like she’s waiting for permission.
“Sit,” I say.
She sits.
I pour wine—not the good kind, the kind that tastes like it’s been aging in a box on the bottom shelf of a supermarket—and hand her a glass. I keep mine in my hand but don’t drink.
She sips. Winces.
“You’re stalling,” I say.
“I’m… trying to figure out where to start.”
“The beginning usually works.” I settle into the chair across from her, crossing my legs. “What did The Watcher say?”
Her fingers tighten around the stem. “‘You were wrong about her. Don’t make the same mistake twice.’”
I keep my face still. Iris’s voice flickers through my mind—smooth, controlled, too close. She’s been quiet for days. Quiet people are always plotting. But then again, who isn’t?
“And who’sher?” I ask.
“I assumed you’d know.”
“I assumed you’d know,” I say, sweetly, “considering you’re the one getting cryptic messages like some bargain-bin thriller heroine.”
She flinches. “I didn’t want to tell you. I thought it might… I don’t know. Make things worse.”
I let out a low laugh. “Worse than our mutual stalker evaporating off the internet? Enlighten me.”
She takes another sip. This time, she drinks deeper—finishes the glass.
“I’m sorry, I should go.” Her eyes dart around the room, desperate to land anywhere but on me. “James is waiting. He’ll start to worry.” Her hand trembles when she sets the glass down. “There really isn’t anything more to tell. I wish I had answers. I’m just going to block the number. It’s probably some freak from the internet anyway.”
“Right,” I purr.
A minute later the door clicks shut, and I’m alone again.
I cross to the bookcase, pull a paperback off the shelf, and lift the recorder tucked behind it. The red light stops blinking.
“Got it all,” Blake says behind me, appearing at the front door like he’d been waiting for Harper to leave.
Or waiting to help me bury the body.
“Of course we did,” I say.
