Page 100 of Brutal Truths

“Right.”

“Is it possible she went to talk to your grandfather that night?”

“I guess she might have.” A small shrug follows. “After that man nearly ran us down, she couldn’t stop talking about him. Kept saying my grandfather was probably passed out in his office drunk.”

“Which gives her a reason to go and talk to him.”

The pieces are starting to line up.

“She checked his office. He’s not there.” I turn to look at her. “So, she tried his bedroom.”

It’s a theory that can’t be proven.

“Walked in on something she shouldn’t have,” I toss out there to see how it sounds.

With a slight shake of her head, she dismisses that thought. “But wouldn’t they have noticed her?”

“Not if the timing was in her favor.”

My eyes close, replaying the layout of Rico’s bedroom suite. “From where the shot would’ve been taken, the bedroom door isn’t in the direct line of sight. If she came in at the wrong—or right—moment, she could’ve slipped past unnoticed.”

Another piece slots in.

“Closet’s right by the door. If she stepped in there, even briefly, it’d make her nearly impossible to spot. Especially if whoever did it was in a hurry to get out.”

“But if she saw him get shot, she would’ve screamed.”

“Maybe.” I don’t rush the answer. “Or maybe she didn’t understand what she was hearing. Confusion does strange things. She might’ve heard the shot without understanding what it was. By the time it registered, whoever pulled the trigger was already to get out and didn’t make sure they were still alone.”

The thought sticks, and once it does, the rest follows. “They wouldn’t have stayed. Not with the fire as cover. Get in, get out, let the fire take care of the rest.”

I glance at Isabel, letting the theory build instead of forcing it. “She comes out. Finds the gun. Sees Rico… and panic fills in the rest. In her mind, she’s the one who did it. Wraps it up in the first thing she finds, which happens to be the scarf you gave her. Knows she needs to hide it to make sure no one discovers it. This person sees her going into the gallery. They panic and hit her over the head.”

Her face says she’s caught somewhere between disbelief and something harder. “That only works if the gun was hidden before they saw her.”

“It’s possible,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “She could have hidden it, then gone looking for you. If she wasn’t fully lucid, she might have thought she was protecting you. Nights can be extremely difficult for those who suffer from memory loss.”

“Sundown syndrome.” Isabel narrows her eyes at me. “How do you know about that?”

“I do my research, sweetheart. You entrusted me to take care of her, so I wasn’t about to let anything happen to her on my watch.”

She shifts slightly before turning to face me completely. “You really think that’s how it happened? That she walked in on Rurik killing my grandfather, and he somehow didn’t see her? That’s he just left her behind? Which seems like a lousy idea, unless he was certain it couldn’t be traced back to him. And Grams is the one who hid the gun inside the gallery safe?”

Frustration creeps into her tone as she pushes it further. “Fine. Say that’s how it went down. Why does she think they were stealing her paintings? That she caught them, and that’s when they hit her?”

“Why are you convinced it was Rurik?”

“Because he told me he did it.” A steely edge enters her voice. “He bragged about it while smoking one of my grandfather’s cigars.”

“That doesn’t prove he pulled the trigger.” I keep my attention on her. “He could have gotten those later. Men like Trent and Rurik rarely get their hands dirty. They rely on someone they trust to do it for them.”

Her focus sharpens. “Who would that be?”

“For Trent, Silas.” That’s the easy answer. “If he needed something done right, he wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

She doesn’t blink. “But he trusted you.”

“Only because he wanted it fixed and didn’t want Silas’s hands to get messy. He said someone was setting him up.”