She walked out the gate
With a blanket and my heart.
Should I have followed?
“Yuck,” Sierra muttered. “Don’t quit your day job.”
But then . . .a blanket. The image of Alicia wearing that comforter over her shoulders was forever burned into Sierra’s memory.
She had always assumed that she was the last person, other than the killer, to see her sister alive. But evidently Elijah had watched her walk out the gate that night.
She flipped back through his notes, and yes, there—
Approx. 9:10—Sierra left through front gate.
Approx. 9:15—Alicia left w/ comforter. Followed Sierra?
She turned back to the poem, rereading its final line, her thoughts flipping it back and forth between two possible meanings.
“Should I have followed?”I didn’t follow.
“Should I have followed?”Following was a mistake.
He was obsessed with her sister. He could have been jealous. He could have gone after her. He could have killed her, returning at four in the morning to go for a swim. Washing off the blood? Did the pool have something to do with Alicia being wet?
And the car with no headlights . . . Had someone followedhimback to the villas?
Sierra rubbed her brow. What was she missing?
Out on the patio, the grating of metal café chairs on the pavers pulled her back to the moment. Right—she was supposed to be leaving.
Turning away from Elijah’s notes, she ducked past the coffee table with a burnt candle and the same edition of theHollywood Heraldthey had in their villa. Past the sofa table with the decorative glass bowl holding three random twine balls. Past the Van Gogh painting—
Sierra jerked to a stop. Pivoted in one swift movement.
She stared at the framed picture on the wall. A café at night. Patrons enjoying a quiet repose.
She knew this painting.Café Terrace at Night.
Sierra’s whole body shook with adrenaline as she glanced over her shoulder, wondering how much time she had.
She lifted the picture frame away from the wall and set it against the back of the sofa. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary on the wall, she felt around the edges of the picture’s frame. Then . . . she spotted it. The small incision cut into the brown paper that covered the back.
She used a black fingernail to pry, just a little . . .
A piece of paper fell into her hand. It was neatly folded into a small, tight square.
Alicia’s last note.
Sierra jumped to her feet as the gate’s hinges creaked outside. She pocketed the paper and grabbed the painting. By the time she’d hooked the wire hanger onto its screw, she could hear the back door opening. The scuff of Elijah’s sneakers.
She scurried to the entryway, shutting the front door as quietly as she could, then dashed around the bushes—and crashed right into Beck.
“Sierra!” he said, as breathless as she was. “What are you . . . I didn’t think you’d still be in there!”
“I found it.” She grabbed Beck’s arm and pulled him away from Elijah’s villa. “Alicia’s letter.” They rounded the edge of the pool. Elijah wasn’t following them. Nobody was paying them any attention. “She didn’t mean the terrace as in the patio. She was referring to Van Gogh’sCafé Terrace at Nighthanging in their living room. Look.” She pulled the note from her pocket.
“Oh my god. You did it!”
