Page 112 of Lorenzo

Lorenzo’s people have spread out around us, leaving the sedan boxed between two vehicles and the closed gate. No one crowds the driver’s door. No one raises a weapon.

They wait.

That tells me more about Lorenzo than any display of violence would.

Next to me, Mocha stands at the ready, his body rigid and his eyes trained on the sedan. A low sound vibrates in his chest.

“Stay,” I tell him.

His ears angle toward me, but he does not look away from the other car.

Lorenzo takes one step forward.

“Turn off the engine.”

His voice carries across the lot without effort.

After a moment, the engine shuts off.

The silence that follows is complete enough for me to hear the faint ticking beneath the sedan’s hood.

“Get out,” he says.

Again, there’s a pause, and after a moment, the driver’s door opens slowly.

A woman steps out.

For one instant, my mind tells me it’s Genevieve.

The same face. The same height. The same mouth and eyes.

Then I see the differences.

Rachel’s hair has been dyed to match her sister’s, but her face is thinner than Genevieve’s was in the photographs, the bones beneath her skin more pronounced. She wears dark jeans, boots, and a black coat zipped to her throat.

But it's the look in her eyes that tells me more than anything that this is not Genevieve. For a brief moment, what she is shows plainly: psychopath.

Then she shuts it down, and she's all innocence.

Her gaze finds me first.

Then she sees Lorenzo.

Her lips tremble. Her eyes widen in shock and surprise. One hand rises toward her chest.

The reaction arrives all at once, too complete and too polished.

Fear. Confusion. A slight tremble in her hand.

That performance pulled together at a moment’s notice.

She’s good. I’ll give her that.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “What is this? What’s going on?”

I study her.

The photographs in Elaine’s house showed a girl who disliked cameras. The woman in front of me knows exactly how to perform for an audience.