Brooks’s beautiful face twisted in anger. “If something is happening that’s relevant to the case, I need to know. I’ve taken a huge risk for you. I’m jeopardizing my career.”
I couldn’t help it—he’d opened the door to ten years ago, and the question flew out. “I don’t even understand why you joined the FBI. When I knew you, all you wanted was to be a lawyer.”
“Why do youthink?” he burst out. “You and Scout weren’t the only ones whose lives changed when Georgia died. I watched you suffer, and I was helpless to do anything about it.” He turned sharply to the side, as if he didn’t want me to see his face. “YouknewI was helpless. That’s why you didn’t want me anymore.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“Can you blame me for choosing a job that gave me some goddamn control?” He mastered himself and turned back to me, standing in the doorway. “And if we’re asking about motivations, here’s a question I’ve had for years: The Isabel I remember had her own dreams. Why’d you give them up to become Scout’s assistant?” Brooks scrubbed a hand roughly over his mouth. “What was it? You felt so guilty she lost her sister you decided your life was an okay replacement?”
He didn’t know what I’d done under the guise of being Scout’s personal assistant. But that didn’t mean his words didn’t sting. Or maybe he was right, and it was that simple: Maybe Georgia had been taken and some part of me had decided it was my duty to make it right for Scout, no matter the personal cost.
“Ten years later and you still aren’t ready to have an honest conversation.” The hope in Brooks’s eyes faded. “You won’t even give me that.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I prayed he could hear my honest regret. “I really did love you, for whatever that’s worth. Everything else… maybe one day I can tell you. But not today.”
Today, I was still choosing her.
I flew westdown the highway, dodging the insane traffic clogging the exits to Downtown, nails digging half moons into my steering wheel. What if I didn’t make it?
Malibu overlooked the Pacific, famous for two things: compounds that towered above the waves and plagues of natural disasters—erosions, landslides, and fires. The wealthiest rebuilt every time, but my real estate agent had warned there would come a day, as the earth’s climate continued to unravel, that the sea itself would flood Malibu and bury it underwater, a fate no wealth could stave off. In fact, in the coming years, there was a chance the ocean would reclaim all of Los Angeles. Like so many other things, it was a ticking bomb.
But that apocalypse was years away. The one I raced toward was happening now.
Somehow, I knew Easton’s house before checking the address. It stood on the edge of a cliff, storm clouds gathering above, the roof ringed by a dark miasma. An enormous lawn, guarded by trees, shielded the house from the street, and through the breaks between branches I could see Scout. A lone woman facing the Hellmouth, at the center of which was her sister’s killer.
I was silent as I approached. But Scout turned anyway and held out her hand, as if she’d known all along I was coming. We stood side by side, fingers intertwined.
“I’m sorry for what I said about you and Georgia.” Scout squeezed my hand. “She was your sister as much as mine.”
It was what I longed to hear, deep down. Proof that I mattered, that everything I’d given meant something. “Thank you,” I whispered.
We stood in silence for a moment, watching the impending storm roll closer. I glanced from the single lit window in the house to thewaistband of her jeans, where she’d tucked a slender handgun. “You told me you got rid of that.”
“I lied.”
“What else have you lied to me about?”
She turned to me. “I left my knife in Alden’s room on purpose. So he’d never forget I was there.”
“We,” I corrected. “Wewere there.”
She smiled. “We.”
We walked around the perimeter of the house, checking windows and entryways, until we found Easton’s sliding glass door was unlocked. Here in the sheltered enclaves of Malibu, he must feel untouchable. We crept inside, the sound of our footsteps on the stairs masked by classical music coming from the second floor, where we’d seen the light in the window.
Easton’s office was lined with shelves displaying awards and thick bottles of scotch. A huge Lucite desk sat in the center of the room, Easton behind it, as imposing as a king.
Scout lifted her gun before he could speak.
“What?” Easton shoved back from his desk, scrambling to his feet, his phone falling to the floor. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t move,” Scout said. I couldn’t believe how steady her voice sounded.
I borrowed her strength. “We know you killed Georgia. Not your son.” Behind Easton, through a massive window, stretched all of Los Angeles.
He threw up his hands, eyes glued to the gun. “I had nothing to do with that.” His voice was rough as gravel. “You’re the ones who signed my son’s death warrant, accusing him of it.”
Silently, Scout pulled a folded-up photo out of her pocket and walked forward, smoothing it over Easton’s desk. I looked down at Georgia and Easton tangled together. The color drained from Easton’s face.
