“Already dealt with.” Sebastian had been at the estate all day.
“You had help with this?”
“Yes,” was all he said.
My trickle of nerves returned. If this wasn’t family business, who else was involved?
We went through the back door—a five-pin Schlage deadbolt—intoan antiseptic stillness, the feel of a weekend residence, cleaned between every visit. No bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, no crumbs beside the toaster.
The nearest neighbor was beyond screaming distance.
Sebastian took me though the kitchen, into a foyer with twenty-foot ceilings. The spiky sculpture hanging from the ceiling was familiar from Garrett’s catalog. A Melany Tolbert?
“Sebastian,” I said. “Are we here tostealsomething?”
He only shook his head.
Through an arched entryway was a large room filled with paintings, sculptures, plinths holding curio boxes and manuscripts. I began to see more art I recognized. A Cindy Sherman, another Tolbert, and there on the far wall…a small Xenakis from Poker Genome Project.
The full houses.
“One of Garrett’s clients lives here,” I said.
“Yes.”
My heart beat faster. “In Lyon’s cult?”
“His first convert.”
So this was another frame-up, and the cutting of a loose end. Me.
The police were still looking for Jessica Anderson. Some ordinary at Helshire might see the resemblance and make a call. The elders no longer trusted me to stand firm under interrogation.
If Jessica Anderson were found dead here, no one would be surprised.
“Close your eyes,” Sebastian said.
I obeyed him. A knife in the stomach, a razor across the throat.
“Remember when you picked me up at the station?” He put his hands on my shoulders. “I asked you to forgive me in advance.”
“You’re forgiven.” Wire around the neck. “Just do it.”
He turned me around.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered in my ear.
50
Hiromi’s face took up the entire wall.
This was the guilty secret she’d kept covered in her studio—a self-portrait. Her eyes, luminous, wet with tears, stared straight into mine.
Garrett had found it and wasted no time putting it up for sale. One of the cult had wanted this strange memorial to Lyon. But more, it was a testament to all the future art Hiromi would never make, because of me.
Drawn closer to the portrait, I breathed two words:
“I’m sorry.”
