The gallery?
A knot of dread formed in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
I called her number. It rang. No answer. Another ring. Another.
Still nothing. It rang again and went to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Penelope. Leave a message. Or just text me.”
I didn’t bother leaving a message.
But I did not like that she hadn’t answered.
Why would they have had one of her paintings? It was too suspicious for comfort. Did Gina Morris know the sheriff ’s office was about to open an investigation into her late husband?Couldshe know?
My gut was screaming at me, every cell in my body telling me this was not okay. Gina Morris had been trying to stalk her; she was at the gallery and not answering her phone. I couldn’t quite connect those dots, but somehow I knew they didn’t lead anywhere good.
I ran down the stairs, heedless of the parents and students milling around the commons. The sun set so early that time of year, it was already dark outside, and the floodlights in the parking lot seemed to emphasize the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky.
My phone buzzed with a text as I got in my truck, but it was just Luke. I glanced at it on the off chance it had to do with Penelope—since she’d been with Melanie earlier—but it was something about football.
I pulled out of the parking lot and drove back downtown. There was a popular restaurant next to the gallery, and despite the cold, it was busy and parking was nonexistent. After circling a couple times, I settled on a spot a couple blocks away.
With my heart beating hard, I flew out of my truck and jogged down the sidewalk. The gallery was so dark, it looked abandoned. The windows were covered and not a sliver of light showed from inside. Either they’d put up some seriously effective blackout curtains, or no one was in there—at least not in the main gallery area.
Still, I pounded on the door. Maybe they were up in the loft, and it only looked like the place was one step from being haunted.
No one answered. I knocked again, harder, and waited. Still nothing.
“Fuck.”
I pulled out my phone and tried calling her again. No answer.
Hunkering down in my coat against the wind, I went around the building to the alley that led behind the gallery. Pen and I had escaped out the back door the day we’d been sleuthing in disguise. Maybe it would be open. Or if someone was inside, they’d hear me knock and come answer.
The alley was dark. I found the door and tried the knob. Locked.
I pounded on it—hard—and waited.
Nothing. No sound except the wind.
Where was she? Panic started to rise, and my heart raced as I jogged back to my truck. I needed to keep my head—not freak out. I’d probably just missed her. And if her phone was on silent, she wouldn’t have heard my calls.
Very likely, everything was fine, and she was at home making soup wondering why I was so late. I wasn’t going to panic over nothing. I’d go home, find her there, and scoop her into myarms. Then I’d tell her how I felt about her, and hope she wanted me to stay.
CHAPTER 37
Penelope
The soundof arguing drew me toward consciousness.
Confusion muddled my brain. Why were my parents fighting again? I wished they’d stop doing that.
But no, it couldn’t be my parents. I wasn’t a child anymore. And they hadn’t been in the same room in years.
Who was arguing?
“This isn’t what we talked about,” a man’s voice said. It was vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t place him. He sounded concerned.
