The fireplace was filled with trash. Crumpled cans, shattered glass bottles. That was where they’d found the bloody clothing. Just a few centimeters of cotton fabric that had escaped the flames, no more than a few drops of blood on them. Enough to match the DNA to Irene Palmer. Not enough to identify who the clothes might have belonged to.
“We heard…” Travis started, then grunted. She looked over her shoulder. Abraham had elbowed him in the ribs, judging by how Travis was rubbing his side.
“You want to know if I’m a psycho? A killer?” she asked, idly quoting the words scrawled on the dining room wall.
“Yeah. I guess,” Travis said. Abraham looked stricken. “I mean, obviously you didn’t, like … sacrifice them to Satan. But there’s the theory that you did it because they didn’t approve of your boyfriend. Or, like, a thrill kill? Or you were doing a bunch of drugs and…” He seemed to realize at last what he was saying and swallowed. His eyes were shining with excitement.
This was … different. She blinked slowly. “Would you be disappointed if I told you I didn’t do it?”
“No,” Abraham said immediately. Travis’s shoulders climbed toward his ears. Emma just shook her head, turned away.
There were more words, more names carved in the doorframe that led into the kitchen. Her fingers moved over the grooves. KC+TM. That weird S everyone inexplicably became obsessed with drawing in middle school. A flower.
She paused, fingers under the simple carving. She knew this flower. She’d seen it doodled in margins, in fogged-up windows. A daisy.
It had to be a coincidence. It wasn’t that distinctive. And yet there it was. Juliette had left those little flowers like a signature everywhere she went. Scattered behind her, symmetrical and sweet. Juliette Palmer, with her perfect hair and perfect grades and perfect manners, would never have been in a place like this.
But Juliette hadn’t been home that night, either, had she?
Emma’s fingernail scratched across the lowest curve of the bottom petal. Emma had left first that night. But Juliette hadn’t been home when she returned. Had walked in the front door with bare feet, wet hair, wearing clothes that weren’t hers.
“Where did you go, Juliette?” Emma whispered.
“What did you say?” Travis asked.
Emma turned. Narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t come near my house again,” she said. She stalked past them. Both boys jumped out of the way. As she walked she took her phone out of her shorts pocket and pulled up a rarely accessed phone number.
I need to talk to you about Juliette, she wrote, and sent the text to Gabriel.
17
EMMA
Now
Lorelei Mahoney’s house was a petite three-bedroom, exquisitely maintained by her husband for decades before his death and by Gabriel since. Lorelei’s prize roses were still blooming out front as Emma pulled up, but there was something changed about the quality of the garden, and Emma knew immediately that it wasn’t Lorelei herself tending to the flowers.
The old woman sat on her porch, wearing thick glasses and shaking her head at her phone as she scrolled. She was a petite woman, with her grandson’s long face, her skin sun-weathered and creased with dozens of fine wrinkles.
Emma got out of the car, suddenly sixteen again. Then, coming to this place had been entering a sanctuary. She would open the door without knocking and make her way to the studio at the back of the house. Sometimes Lorelei would be there; sometimes Emma would work alone for hours before she was interrupted. The first time she’d met Gabriel had been one of those days, the whole of her focus absorbed by the canvas in front of her so that when Gabriel made a sound behind her, she had no idea how long he had been there.
“You’re good,” he’d said. That was all. Then he’d wandered off into the depths of the house. By the time Lorelei introduced them officially, Emma was already in love.
There’d been far less reason then for Lorelei to dislike her, of course. She looked up now, and her face pulled into a deep frown. Emma stuck her hands in her pockets as she made her way up the walk.
“Emma. I was wondering when I might be seeing you,” Lorelei said.
“Hello, Mrs. Mahoney,” Emma replied, formal, and Lorelei didn’t correct her. Emma stayed on the walk, not wanting to give the impression she felt entitled to intrude on Lorelei’s domain.
“Are you looking for Gabriel?” Lorelei asked.
“I am,” Emma said. Lorelei hmm-ed. Emma cleared her throat. “I know you’re not my biggest fan, after what happened.”