Page 43 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“But do you—don’t you—?” Jack didn’t have the words to ask, or didn’t want to find them.

“Of course I love you. Your mom too. But I don’t think for a second you’re what makes me strong. I’m strong because I go after what I want. A Prima. Like you.”

Jack let out an involuntary smile, the compliment washing over her like warm milk. But then she shook her head.

“My mom might not be a Prima. But she did all this”—she waved her hands wide, taking in the house, the labyrinth, herself—“on her own. I think you’re more alike than different.”

Lana looked up one more time. The birds were gone now, the sky darkening like a bruise. Whatever pain was floating there, whatever wisps of forgiveness, the night swallowed it all.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Do you always hum in the morning?”

Beth jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. Seven thirty a.m. on Monday, and Lana was already sitting at the table, laptop open, legal pad covered in notes. It was the earliest she’d been up since she came to Elkhorn.

“I’m allowed to make noise in my own house, Ma.” Beth turned away and smiled at the coffeemaker. “Nice to see you’ve got some energy.”

“It’s my last day of the steroids this month. I might as well get some use out of them.”

Jack walked over to the table, waffle in hand. “What’re you working on, Prima?”

“I’m trying to make a map of the slough. The jurisdictions. Who owns what. Did you know the Rhoads ranch is two hundred and fifty acres?”

“Massive, huh?” Beth said.

“I’ve developed bigger.”

Jack leaned over her grandma’s mess of arrows and jagged lines, punctuated by question marks. “I met this grad student at the marina last month who does ocean cartography. She goes out with this sonar machine and measures how the seafloor is changing. She offered to take me out on her boat sometime. If it’s okay with you, maybe I could ask—”

“Did Ricardo Cruz die in the ocean?” Beth asked.

“Probably not,” Lana said. “Maybe in one of those creeks.”

Beth looked at the mess of squiggles. “Looks like spaghetti.”

“It’s a first draft.” Lana yanked the pad closer. “You don’t usually work Mondays. What time will you be home?”

Beth looked at her. There was an edge to her mother’s words, as if she needed something. Maybe the chemo was hitting her harder than usual. “I picked up a half shift to cover for the time at the wake. I should be home by four.”

“Me too,” Jack said. “Maybe we could all watch a movie tonight or something?”

“Or you could help me fix this map.”

Beth looked one more time at her mother. Lana’s hair was a patchwork of chick fuzz and wiry moss, and she looked anxious, as if she didn’t want to be left alone in the house. Then she lifted the map and waved it at them.

“Have a good day, girls.”

* * *

The door closed, and the house went quiet. Too quiet. While part of Lana relished having the house to herself after the packed weekend, another part of her hated the silence, the ugly reminder that she was stuck here while others went out into the world.

It was time to do something about that.

At nine on the dot, she called the land trust. To her surprise, Victor Morales picked up right away. He was happy to hear from her, and yes, he’d love to give her a tour on Wednesday afternoon.

Then she called Diana Whitacre. Despite the urgency with which Diana had requested to talk to her, it took eight minutes of stilted pleasantries before the woman would get to the point.

“Ms. Rubicon, I’ve looked you up. Your projects, your work, it’s impressive. I don’t know exactly why you’ve come to our little hamlet, but it’s a godsend as far as I’m concerned.”