Chapter 11

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I'm aware of is a soft knock on the door. It takes me a moment to orient myself—the room is completely dark and musty and decidedly not mine.

"Come in," I call out, cringing at the hoarse sound of my voice. I have a dehydration headache, and my whole body feels like it's been through a washing machine.

"Door's locked," says a deep male voice I don't recognize.

"Who are you?" I ask, mentally reviewing the supplies I have in my carry-on for whether or not any can be used as weapons.

My mind catches up with the situation a second later. I remember that Nicole has a husband I haven't met yet—and also that a murderer probably wouldn't knock.

"Damien," the visitor responds helpfully, confirming his identity. "I've got some food for you."

Earlier, I didn't want to eat anything unpackaged in case these people prove to be murderous in addition to crazy, but I'm so ravenous at this point I'd eat anything—even something that's been sitting in Dick's fridge for over a week.

I pad over to the door and turn on the light switch next to it, blinking from the sudden assault. Then I open it, revealing a tall, broad man with light brown skin, black hair, and blue-grey eyes. He's very attractive but much more refined than Nicole—he's like the William Henry knife to her shiv.

"You're Nicole's husband?" I ask in surprise.

"You were expecting someone white?" My mouth gapes open, but he laughs. "Sorry, I had to. It's been a long week. Can I come in for a minute?"

I glance at the door, remembering how Nicole said she'd kill anyone who hit on Damien. It was probably a joke, but why take chances on a probably?

"Let's keep the door open," I say.

He nods and hands me a brown paper bag that smells promisingly of tomato sauce and cheese. "Neither of us would hurt you," he promises.

"It's not you I'm worried about," I tell him.

His chuckle is probably not as reassuring as he thinks it is. He waves to the old desk. "Go ahead and eat. Don't stand on ceremony for me. I just ran into Rex, and he said you and Declan got caught out in the rain with a flat tire. Sounds like it's been a long day."

"Does everyone know everything about everyone around here?"

"They try," he says, watching as I lower into the chair and take out the sandwich and soda. It's eggplant parmesan, my favorite. I glance at it in wonderment, then suspicion, my gaze shifting to him.

"You posted about it on social media," he says with a shrug. "I'd argue it's not an example of her overreach."

"Did Nicole send you to talk to me as a kind of good cop-bad cop thing?"

"Nah," he says, leaning against the wall just inside of the door. "My wife's fast asleep." From the way he says it, it's a reminder. His way of saying, she may be a little crazy, but I love her.

He cocks his head, watching me. "She barely slept at all after she learned about you, you know. It's been days. Nicole might come off as someone who couldn't care less, but when it comes to the people in her life she couldn't care more."

This gives me pause for a second, then I think about the way she Machiavelli-ed the whole plane ticket situation. "Maybe I want her to care less if caring more means stalking me and putting my life in danger."

He lifts his eyebrows. "You want to know the truth? I think what happened to Dick was an accident, and this is Nicole's way of trying to make sense of it. If it weren't for you, I would wish he'd gone right on hiding. Not much of a man, to leave his kids and then expect them to set everything aside and come running as soon as he makes the shitty decision that finally kills him."

"Whoa," I say, setting down the sandwich. I hadn't expected him to be so honest with me, either about Dick or the situation with Nicole. It's refreshing, yet I can't shake the feeling that I'm still being manipulated. "Tell me how you really feel."

One side of his mouth lifts in a smirk that's truly devastating, even though I don't feel any kind of pull toward him—thank God, because my half-sister is a terrifying woman.

"You're family," he says. "I don't see any reason to B.S. you."

"If you're so sure he wasn't murdered, then it seems like a pretty thankless task for me to run around town with Nicole and ask people questions."

He lifts his eyebrows. "If I were you, I wouldn't just throw out her hunch and trust mine. I'm right plenty of times, and I don't let her forget it, but she's right more often than I am."

I take a bite of the sandwich to avoid responding, but the truth is, I don't have a ton of choices here. If I want any of the money, I'm stuck in this house for a month. I need the money. I need to regroup and figure out what happens next, because what's been happening wasn't working out.

He taps the wall. "The sheets on the bed are clean, and I wasn't sure if you had a toothbrush and toothpaste, so I put a set in the hall bathroom for you." He lifts his hands, grinning. "Sealed."

"Thanks," I say, feeling a blush try to exert itself. "I appreciate the sandwich and the toothbrush. Even if it's your way of telling me I already smell like garlic."

"Oh—" he snaps his fingers, "—I almost forgot, but the Jeep out there is yours. Nicole and I have our own car here, and another at home, so we don't need it." He pulls a key fob from his pocket and sets it on the desk next to my food.

Relief washes through me, chased by fear, because the Jeep really is a beast, big enough that I could mow over a squirrel without hearing the thump.

"Sleep well," Damien says with a nod. "We're glad you're here, Claire."

"You too." It's a rote response, delivered without thought, and after he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, I have plenty of time to be embarrassed by it.

You too? You too, what?

But I dial the airline's hotline as I finish my sandwich, then spend the next twenty minutes on hold while I explore the bedroom. Which isn't as interesting as it sounds. There's not much to explore beyond the dresser—empty—and the desk, which has a single drawer. I'm excited about the drawer for a second because it's jammed, but when I finally wiggle it open, the only thing I find inside is a crumpled napkin which looks soiled in a way that I'll only dare to touch it if I find rubber gloves.

Finally, the call connects. I'm assured that my bag will indeed be brought to me…once they find it.

"It's very important," I say for the third or fourth time.

"It always is, sweetheart," says the man on the other line with a beleaguered sigh. "It always is."

After we hang up, I call my dad and tell him a very sanitized version of the story—turning Declan into a helpful stranger, Nicole into someone who's definitely not a psychopath, and Dick's maybe-murder into a total accident, although I do tell him Nicole and I are related.

Once we get off the phone, I get ready for bed and slip under the sheets before calling Lainey, whom I give a completely unedited account.

"It's the DEATH card," she says, sounding thrilled by my misfortune.

"You genuinely believe all of this happened because I pulled a card out of a stack?"

"No, dummy," she says, "I think the Tarot really works. I'm going to watch some online tutorials tonight."

"You really think you're getting fired, don't you?" I ask, reading between the lines. Lainey's work schemes come in hot and hard when something big happens in her life.

Her sigh gusts over the phone. "Probably. The sweater that woman stole was made of cashmere from some grass-fed goat."

"Don't all goats eat grass?"

"I'm guessing it was organic grass, watered by tears. The owners are really pissed off. It had mother-of-pearl buttons. It was hideous but very expensive."

This time I'm the one who's excited by her misfortune. "You should come stay with me, Lainey. It would be so much better if you were here too. We could have fun. The mountains are gorgeous, and you've always talked about taking up hiking."

I must be truly desperate, because I've never had any desire to hike.

"I might like hiking more on a theoretical level," she says. "What about the boxes? And the apartment?"

I hold back a groan, because it's hard as hell to find a new apartment in New York, but I'm going to have to let the place go. Given my current financial situation, I can't cover a month's rent if I'm not actually living there. Still, I can't kick Lainey out. I offer to help her cover the next month's rent but admit that I'm going to have to let the unit go after that.

She sighs. "I figured as much. I'm going to have to figure out what to do with all my shit."

"Why don't you ask your parents if they can take some of it, and you can bring the rest over here in their car?"

"Let's see if I get fired over the grass-fed yarn first." She pauses. "Do you have a photo of Declan?"

"Wouldn't it have been weird if I'd asked to snap his picture?"

"Look one up," she says. "If he's a landscaper, he probably has some kind of website."

My heart starts thumping as I turn the phone on speaker and draw up the search window. But I only have one bar of service in this room—two, if I stand on the bed and lean toward the window, and after I enter in "Declan, landscaping, Marshall," it takes the phone forty seconds or so to think about it before spitting up results. I get a couple of hits—none of them him. I don't know his last name or any other thing about him, besides Nicole's pot accusation.

"No photos," I report to Lainey, trying not to sound disappointed.

"That's okay," she says carelessly. "It's not like he's far. I'm sure you can get one later."

My pulse jumps again at the thought of seeing him. Of walking out the door and bumping into him.

"That would be creepy," I tell her, my throat dry.

"You're wearing his T-shirt right now, aren't you?" she asks pointedly.

Yes. I told myself it was because I didn't want to wear the clothes Nicole had lent me to bed if I also have to wear them in the morning, but that wasn't the only reason. I like the T-shirt—the way it smells, the soft fabric, and the thought that it was stretched around his hard, broad chest at some point.

Am I hoping he'll look in through the window before I change and see me in it?

The thought had occurred to me.

"I'm in trouble on so many levels," I say with a groan.

"Remember the Death card," she says again. "OK, I'm going to go watch those tutorials. I'll give you an update in the morning." She's silent for a second, then she says, "Honestly, maybe I'll quit if they don't fire me. What you've got going on sounds way more interesting than what's happening here, and I wouldn't mind putting a few states between Todd and me. He…he put up some Instagram posts."

"That fucker," I say, mostly to make her laugh.

She laughs. "They're not about her. Actually, it's sort of worse. They're about letting go of the things that were holding you back so you can self-actualize. I'm guessing I'm what was holding him back."

"Sounds like he should join the Tribe of Light with my mother," I say with a laugh. "Yes, come here. Please God come here. And we'll figure all of this out. Maybe we can finally do something meaningful with our lives if we get that insurance payout."

My mind starts spinning, forming a future made of spun sugar—delicate and breakable but so beautiful it takes my breath away. My bakery, with a red-and-white-striped awning like in a movie and a line out the door, the smell of chocolate and vanilla scenting the air. Lainey, with me. The two of us, doing it together.

"We?" Lainey interrupts. "As far as I know, Richard Ricci wasn't my father too."

"This might be my chance to start a bakery, and I refuse to start a small business without you." I don't want to oversell it, because the spun sugar in my brain is so fragile that even a hairline fracture can send it all crashing down, so I add, "I've heard there's a high rate of failure, and whenever possible, I'd prefer to share my failures."

"You're too good to me."

"Impossible."

We hang up, and I plug in my phone, grateful I'd stuffed the charger in my carry-on, and snuggle into the covers. I figured it would take me a long time to get to sleep—from the plane to Declan to finding out Nicole is my sister, it's been the craziest, fullest day I can remember. So I'm not surprised when my thoughts keep pinging around inside of my skull like sugar-high toddlers.

I do what I always do when I can't relax—I head down to the kitchen and bake. It's not my kitchen, and it's poorly stocked, but there are enough ingredients for cinnamon muffins. By the time I'm finished, it's past midnight, and I'm not really hungry, but I pack the food away and head back upstairs. I still can't sleep…

My mind keeps summoning up random, unrelaxing thoughts—a man died in this house, did I remember to book Agnes's chemical peel? I hope I didn't, and she shows up anyway—until my mind turns to Declan. Declan, kissing me like he'd die if he stopped. My lips remember what it felt like and want more of it. It's dizzying to think he's right next door, lying in his bed.

Does he sleep naked?

My mind is full of images of Declan in some implausible California king bed with black silk sheets, when I finally ease into sleep.

When I wake up, it's bright outside, light streaming in through the cheap blinds, and I have an even worse dehydration headache. It feels like a dog is barking inside of my head.

Groaning, I get up and slide on my shorts from yesterday, dry by now, and more me than the outfit Nicole lent me.

There's another shrill bark, and it hits me that the sound isn't only inside of my head—it's from a real dog, and moreover, the dog must be in this house. Do Nicole and Damien have a dog? I wouldn't put it past them to have kept something like that from me, but why?

I open the door, and a little mutt comes flying at me. Dogs aren't on the long list of things I'm afraid of, but it lunges at me like a little missile made of teeth and flesh, and I'm not ashamed to admit I scream. When the missile reaches me, though, the dog is transformed into a little tornado of affection, licking and sniffing me as his tail wags.

I crouch down to pet him, and it strikes me that he has a remarkable resemblance to the framed art in the kitchen. He also seems to take interest in the bottom hem of my T-shirt.

Could this be Dick's old dog? Maybe the little guy got confused and wandered into the wrong house?

I didn't notice a doggie door, but then again, I was probably in shock during my tour of the house.

"Nicole?" I call out tentatively.

There's no answer, so I pad down the hall and then down the stairs, taking them cautiously. There's a tell-tale creak in the middle, and I have to wonder…was that the last sound Dick heard before the end? The thought makes me shiver and glance down at my innocent, sweet little friend, who might have borne witness to the whole thing.

If only he could tell us if there'd been anyone else here to see it too…

I shake off the dark feelings, and when I get to the bottom of the steps, make my way to the kitchen, where a note is skewered to the kitchen table with a pocket knife.

So my sister has a flair for melodrama. After our talk yesterday, I'm not surprised.

Sighing, I free the note.

Sleeping beauty,

Damien tells me that he gave you the keys to the Jeep, so you've got wheels. Hope you know how to drive stick shift, sweet cheeks; neither of us do. When you wake up, head to Main Street. It's small enough that you shouldn't have any trouble finding us. Be there no later than noon, we have work to do today.

Your sister

My first thought is Am I really related to this unholy terror? My second is that I definitely don't know how to drive stick shift, which means the key Damien gave me is essentially worthless.

There's no phone number, so I guess I'm supposed to use my detecting skills to find a couple of private investigators, who make it their business to be shady. There's no mention of the little dog or what I'm supposed to do about him.

A quick glance at the clock over the stove tells me I have a couple of hours to figure out a way to Main Street. Does anyone work for Uber here? God knows if the app will even work. I tried to pull up Wordle, and I gave up on the day's puzzle quicker than I usually do, because it took twenty seconds to chew over each of my wrong guesses.

I glance out the side window of the kitchen and flinch. Declan's walking around outside, his expression brooding. He's even more appealing out here, in his element—a strapping, handsome mountain man wandering around outside of a wooden cabin. I should probably be pissed at him—I am sort of pissed—but it's at least novel to be rejected by a man because he likes me too much. In my long, checkered dating history, no one's thrown that one at me before. If it's an untruth, it's at least a flattering one. He turns toward the patch of trees behind our houses, his gaze panning to either side, and that's when it hits me…

Oh, crap. He's looking for his dog. This dog. If I don't catch him now, he could spend hours on a worthless search of the woods.

I entertain the shallow thought that I just rolled out of bed without putting on makeup, brushing my teeth, or combing my hair, then sigh and head for the kitchen door, the dog trailing me like I'm made of bacon. It's as I reach it that I realize this door no more has a doggie door built into it than the front.

Nicole did this.

She kidnapped Declan's dog so I'd be forced to talk to him—and just like yesterday, I'm falling right into her plan.