“You know her?”
Her smile was knowing. “My master’s thesis was the role of allegory and metaphor in the Italian Baroque.”
“Then you understand why this painting was important to Constance Halliday,” I said. “And what she stood for. What the Museum stood for. Once.”
“I do. And believe me, it will again. I promise.”
We shook hands and she left on foot. I don’t know where she left her car and I didn’t ask. She simply faded out into the shadows as silently as she’d come, and I realized her training might have been better than we’d thought.
I walked outside to catch my breath. It was cold, bitterly so, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave just yet.
It was dark in the garden, just before dawn, when the air is grey and the nightbirds are singing. They were tired, those nightbirds, and their song was quieter now. But they were still singing, and they went on singing until dawn broke over the trees.
AUTHOR’S SECOND NOTE
This is where an ordinary author would write the end in big letters and the story would be finished. But I’m not an ordinary author and this story will never be finished. I’ve changed just enough so that you can’t find us, even if you wanted to. And you really shouldn’t try. People have died for less. I know; I was there.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was a trust fall, and there were more people than I can possibly count ready to catch me. But special thanks and a round of cocktails to: Pamela Hopkins, agent, friend, and the first person in this business to wager on me. I hope I have done you proud.
Danielle Perez, gifted editor, who picked up the phone one day and said, “We think you should write a book about older women.” You never let me settle and this book shows it.
Jenn Snyder for generosity and editorial perspectives. Our KILLERS are the richer for it.
Claire Zion for encouragement, enthusiasm, and a pep talk over drinks that set this book on its way.
Craig Burke for giving this book the best possible title it could ever have. You are officially godfather to the KILLERS.
The Berkley art department for creating a graphic cover that is absolutely ICONIC.
Ivan Held and Jeanne-Marie Hudson for giving me the opportunity to live large and kill some folks.
Loren Jaggers and Tara O’Connor for cheerleading. Nobody’s pom-poms are as fluffy as yours.
Jess Mangicaro for endless patience and unflagging good cheer in the face of my tech-challenged ways. You are a rock star.
Candice Coote for keeping things rolling on.
Michelle Vega for taking the baton handoff to bring this home.
Jomie Wilding and the Writerspace team for attention to detail and keeping the digital house clean.
Angèle Masters for her exquisite work as the voice of the Veronica Speedwell books.
Every person at Berkley and Penguin Random House. Literally, all of you. I am so glad to be taking this journey with you.
Every bookseller, librarian, bookstagrammer, reviewer, and reader who has ever picked up one of my books and had a kind thought. Thank you for spreading the book love.
My go-to resource for all things physical and the pal who never flinches when my text messages start, “So I need to kill a guy . . . ,” Travis Staton-Marrero.
Ariel Lawhon and Lauren Willig, who both fielded terrified phone calls that included the question, “BUT HOW?”
Tasha Turner, Felicia Grossman, Jenny Rae Rappaport, Lauren Conrad, Stacey Agdern, and Brina Starler, for kindly sharing insights about their Jewish faith with me.
Blake Leyers, my beloved friend, you are as supportive as good pantyhose. Thank you for the phone calls, the texts, the brainstorming, and above all for the note “If you are writing authentically, you cannot fail.” It’s still taped to my computer.
The rest of the Blanket Fort. For gifs and in-jokes and utter ridiculousness. You are my people.
Ali Trotta, for shrieking with excitement so loudly when I shared the news about this book, I had to put the phone down, and for regular texts of encouragement.
Twitter peeps, who daily bring me joy and respite. Thank you for being my virtual watercooler.
My daughter and every single “YOU GOT THIS” text.
My parents and all the errands run, the moods endured, the tears dried.
My husband and all the everythings.
Every person who identifies female and has rage. I feel you, sister. This one’s for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deanna Raybourn is the New York Times bestselling author of the Edgar Award–nominated Veronica Speedwell Mysteries, as well as the Lady Julia Grey series and several stand-alone works.