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She was, she thought, as she dragged herself from the bed and reached for her robe. Naomi would help her find out what had made Tommy behave in such a bizarre manner. And Clara needed to know. She and Tommy had shared a traumatic experience, they'd become friends, spent lots of time together over the years, helped each other forget their childhood ordeal—she owed it to her friend to find out what had happened to him.
* * * * *
9:11 A.M.
“You're attracted to Clara Candella, aren’t you?” Allina asked as they climbed from their car in front of Clara’s house.
“Yes,” Jonathon admitted. “But right now, nothing is more important to me than solving this case.”
“She might be involved,” his partner reminded him.
“If she is, then I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, though, she’s nothing more than a victim. And we don’t even know if she has had anything to do with Thomas Karl in the twenty-three years since they were kidnapped. For all we know, it’s the first time she’d seen him since they were children.”
“Well, until we know more, just keep things professional,” Allina warned.
Jonathon feared it was already too late for professional. He’d held the woman in his arms yesterday. He hadn’t held her out of necessity or as part of his professional responsibilities—he’d held her because he wanted to. Last night he’d lain in bed for hours thinking about her. About how his words and his touch had calmed her. About how she’d suffered as a child and he hated the thought of her suffering all over again. Still, despite all that, he meant what he’d just told his partner—nothing in the world right now was more important to him than finding the Doll Killers, regardless of whether Thomas Karl was involved. He had a vested interest in this case, and he was going to see to it that no other children suffered because of a sick obsession with dolls.
“Jonathon?” Allina prodded.
“Yeah, professional.” He nodded vaguely, studying Clara’s house. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. The house was small, double story, built from stone, with vines crawling over half of it. The garden was elaborate, full of bushes and shrubs and trees, and Jonathon guessed that in the spring it would be a virtual rainbow of colorful flowers. He thought the house perfectly suited Clara.
“I think it would be best if I lead the interview,” Allina was saying. “From what I saw yesterday, Clara is already too attached to you, and given that you're attracted to her, I’m not sure that you're going to be able to push her in the event that she isn’t forthcoming with answers.”
Jonathon didn’t agree—attracted to Clara or not, nothing was going to stop him from getting the information he needed to help him solve this case, but he’d let Allina take the lead if that was what she wanted. “Sure.” He nodded as he rapped on the door. It inched open a moment later. “Clara, we need . . . Oh,” he broke off. “You're not Clara.”
“What an astute observation,” the woman at the door said dryly. She looked identical to Clara—around the same height, only she was toned and muscled, had the same blonde hair except it only hung to her shoulders, and her facial features were the same, only her eyes were brown instead of green.
“I didn’t know Clara had a twin sister,” he said.
“She doesn’t; we aren’t twins. More like some kind of weird variant on triplets,” the woman replied.
“Care to explain?” he asked when it became clear she wasn't going to say more.
She shrugged disinterestedly. “Clara and I have the same father, but different mothers—both of us were conceived when our mothers cheated on their husbands. Even though we’re half-sisters, we were born on the same day, as was our father’s legitimate daughter. All three of us look the same and share a birthday, so we’re triplets, but we aren’t.”
Interesting family dynamics. “And your name is?”
“Naomi Candella.”
“You both have your father’s last name?” That seemed unusual given the circumstances of their conceptions.
“Yep. Apparently, our father was most insistent that we take his name.”
So far Naomi hadn’t allowed them entrance to the house and it didn’t seem as though she were inclined to do so of her own volition. “May we come in? We need to speak with your sister.”
Somewhat reluctantly, she opened the door and allowed them to enter. The downstairs was one big room. To their left was a kitchen and a door that Jonathon presumed led to a laundry room; immediately in front of them was a large dining table, and the right half of the room had three couches grouped in front of a large fireplace. Doors on the opposite wall led out to a decked area, beyond which was a garden that was just as beautiful as the front one. By every available bit of wall that wasn't occupied by a window or a door, there was a bookcase. Jonathon counted at least eleven—each one filled to the brim with books.
Just as the outside of the house had suited Clara, so did the inside. All the furniture appeared to be antique, but nothing matched. Each of the eight chairs at the table were a different style and made from a different type of wood. Same with the bookcases; he spotted some in oak, walnut, maple, and mahogany. The couches were all different, and although there were probably six or seven little tables about the large room, none of them were the same. Even the walls were all painted a different color. It was like Clara took a piece of each of the books she loved and made them a part of her life.
All the wood was making him nostalgic. As a kid, he’d spent hours in his grandfather’s shed helping the old man build things. His papa had been an enthusiastic carpenter. He didn’t care what he made; he just loved using his hands to create something that his family could enjoy. Together they had built chairs and tables, beds and dressers, boxes and birdhouses. His grandfather had passed away when Jonathon was fourteen, and he hadn’t built anything since. But standing here in Clara’s home, the desire to build something for her was making him glad he’d kept his grandfather’s tools.
“You may as well sit,” Naomi told them, closing the front door.
“Where’s Clara?” he asked.
“Upstairs, taking a shower. Look, she’s still really shaken up about yesterday. Can’t you come back and question her another time?” her sister asked, looking genuinely concerned.
“I wish we could, but we really need to talk to her now—we weren’t able to get a lot out of her yesterday,” he replied sympathetically.
