Chapter 17

It was late afternoon when the car finally left the Gauthier-Meadowses’ house. From a distance, it was hard to make out more than a pair of silhouettes in the front seats, but I was sure it was them: Becky and Gary, finally leaving the house. Penny was in jail, and with Jodi gone, I was pretty sure Sharian had packed up and left. That meant, in theory, the house was empty.

From our stakeout spot on the side of the road—inside Fox’s van, with DRAGON MUST and oceans of tulle and what looked like a woman’s bra painted with a bullseye on each cup, on and on like that—we held our collective breath. But the car didn’t stop or turn back, and a moment later, it went around the corner and out of sight. I opened the door.

Keme started to follow.

Millie unbuckled herself.

Fox picked up a switchblade (it was actually a toy comb, by the way—which felt about right).

“I’m coming with you,” Indira said.

“We already talked about this,” I said. “You’re all staying here. And you’re going to keep watch. And if they come back, you’re going to cause a huge distraction. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Swan wedding,” Fox said and pressed the switchblade’s button. The comb shot out of its hiding spot. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to use that tulle for years.”

“For years—” But I stopped myself. Keme was reaching for the door, clearly under the impression that he was still coming. “No! You’re staying here and making sure they’re safe.”

Keme glared, but after a moment, he slumped in his seat.

“Indira, don’t you dare use that gun. Which, by the way, I can see in your purse.”

Indira gave me a frosty look and adjusted the purse on her lap.

“I can come,” Millie said. “I don’t have a gun or a comb or anything, but I’m SUPER sneaky.”

Dear God, I thought. Somehow, I managed to say, “No, you’re staying here because you and Indira are the only ones who can actually make Keme do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Keme made one of his favorite gestures again.

“Text me if you see anything,” I said.

Fox was still trying to reset their switch, uh, comb as I got out of the van.

I jogged up the hill to the house, and the distant sounds of traffic faded as I moved away from the road. The house’s concrete shell gleamed in the sunlight, but the windows were dark. I had seen the car leave, I reminded myself. The house would be empty.

After giving the front door a quick try—hey, optimism never killed anyone—I circled around back. The front door had been locked, but the doors to the lanai opened easily (for some reason, plenty of people assume locking the front door means the house is secure). The glass panes rattled softly in their frames. A moment later I was standing inside the combined family room and kitchen. The lights were off, and the shadows seemed almost total as my eyes tried to adjust to the gloom. A faint smell of microwaved curry hung in the air—burned curry. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I made my way to Gary and Becky’s room, the soles of my sneakers whispering against the floorboards. Like the rest of the house, their room was done in shades of gray and white and sandy browns, with blue accents. They had a canopy bed without curtains, a floor mirror with a rubbed-bronze frame, a rubber plant, and a pair of modernist chairs that looked curvy and soft and like they would still somehow be uncomfortable to sit in. A picture window looked out on the wooded hills and, beyond them, the slate-green chop of the Pacific.

When I opened the closet door, something squeaked. I stopped. I listened. I didn’t hear anything. I checked my phone, but I didn’t have any missed calls or messages. I sent up a little prayer that the Last Picks hadn’t gotten distracted by their own distraction. (What in the world was a swan wedding? Probably, knowing Fox, exactly what it sounded like.)

I knelt on the closet floor, pushing aside the hanging clothes to give myself room to work, and looked at the rows of shoes. Then I began picking up each one. It didn’t take long; I found it on my third try. A pair of hiking shoes. A coconut bead was caught in the thick tread next to a few tiny pieces of gravel.

Men’s hiking shoes.

This—or something like this—was what Cole had wanted to show me. That’s why he’d wanted to meet. That’s why he’d been carrying the coconut-bead necklace in his pocket, instead of wearing it. It was a match to the one Mason had been wearing the night he died. The necklace that had broken when Mason had been killed. And here, lodged in the treads of this shoe, was the evidence that someone had been at the scene of the crime. Someone who had lied to the police about where he’d been.

I took out my phone to snap a picture.

Movement at the corner of my eye made me turn.

“I thought you might come back,” Gary said. He filled the doorway as he aimed a gun at me. “I guess I was right.”