We walk through the living room to the kitchen. Carly switches off the TV on the way through, but not before I see my mug shot plastered on the news. Her gaze darts back to mine. “They’re looking for you everywhere.”
“Have the police been here?”
She shakes her head, a few strands of her mousy brown hair falling loose.
“Good.” Hope took her mom’s surname. That, along with the fact that she died five years ago, seems to have so far kept the police from making the connection between us.
I follow Carly over to the kitchen and take a seat at the small round dining table.
It always feels weird being here without Hope. She would sit in the seat to my right and Carly would take the one opposite. Everything about this house reminds me of my sister, right down to the artwork still stuck to the refrigerator.
Carly catches me looking at the drawings and puts on a face that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be nonchalant. “Have you taken any photos lately?”
I give her a look right back. “No.” Technically, I’ve taken plenty of photos, but I’m pretty sure surveillance shots aren’t what Carly means.
She finishes brewing the coffee. “Hope’s gallery is holding a memorial showing in her honor next month.”
“That’s nice,” I say, because life has taught me that’s what you’re supposed to say.
“It was Sarah’s idea.”
Sarah was Hope’s best friend. The two of them opened the gallery together after finishing college. Hope was the one who encouraged me to study art. The one who gave me my first exhibition.
I’m pretty sure Sarah took all my photos down after I was arrested, not because it was bad for business but because people were fighting to buy them. The world is full of people who get a thrill out of owning art by a murderer but apparently, I’m the fucked up one. Make it make sense.
Carly sits down and takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re not just here to visit, are you? You were supposed to be gone by now but you’re still here, which means something went wrong.”
I curl my hand around the mug, holding on even when it starts to burn. “There was another person there that night. Behind the camera.”
Carly’s throat bobs. She stares at the wooden kitchen cupboards, her gaze drifting to the pencil marks on the wall where she used to measure Hope’s height. Her fingers dig into her arm. “Who?”
I shake my head. “No names, remember?”
Carly drags in a breath. She rests her elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands. “She wouldn’t want you doing this. She wouldn’t want you killing for her.”
“And what do you want?”
Carly’s stony gaze drills into me from between her fingers. “I want you to end the fuckers who dared hurt my baby.”
That makes two of us then. Three if you include Lachlan.
“I need Hope’s diary,” I say, and Carly’s face crumbles.
“She didn’t like anyone looking at that.”
I know she didn’t and Hope’s privacy is one of the few boundaries I ever cared to respect but so far, neither Lachlan nor I have found anything on Claren.
Hope had to have come onto his radar at some point and if she knew him at college then maybe there’s some clue in her diary as to who he hung out with, where he spent his time. All I need is a starting point, somewhere to dig for the dirt that is undoubtedly hiding under Claren’s shiny surface.
Carly looks up to the ceiling then shakes her head. “I’ll go get it.”
I wait downstairs, taking a look around while she’s gone. The place is tidy but there are too many empty wine bottles by the trashcan and the living room curtains are still drawn.
Carly never remarried after my father left her. Her daughter was all she had. We should have realized something was wrong sooner but Hope hid everything so well, even from me.
It’s taking too long for Carly to grab the diary, so I go upstairs. I find her sitting on Hope’s bed, the rose patterned comforter crushed under her weight. She wipes her face when she sees me and runs her hand over the drawings decorating Hope’s diary.
The walls are covered in her art too. Sketches of her favorite characters, posters of Andy Warhol’s pop art, bookshelves stacked with Anime.
