51

Victoria crept into the darkness, step by step, straining to see. She wasn’t thinking about severed eyes or a crazy person who may or may not be feeling particularly stabby, or the angry ghost of her husband lurking in wait. Nope. Victoria wasn’t scared of X, and she certainly didn’t believe in ghosts.

Many people wished for the dead to come back; it was natural to mourn for someone you’d lost and long for them to return. Victoria, however, had never been one of those people. Not once. Not when her mother died, wasting away in her pink satin nightgown until her collarbones protruded and her cheeks sunk in. Not when her father had followed a few years later after a stroke.

Not when Warren was murdered.

She wanted answers, to confront X and deal with her unresolved issues about how Warren had died—of which there were plenty. A therapist would have a field day. But getting Warren back would’ve meant sacrificing more than she was willing to give.

It was best if the dead stayed dead.

Victoria flicked on the lights at the bottom of the stairs, her mouth dropping in a wide oh of surprise. Warren’s boxes were upturned, their contents thrown everywhere. Button-downs and ties—some knotted because Warren hadn’t been able to do it himself—laid haphazardly across the couches and overstuffed chairs. Wedding photos and copies of old files were strewn about like confetti. Several of the frames were broken; glass glittered under the recessed lighting, prettier than it had any right to be given the chaos.

Warren had kept hard-copy notes on every major client, one of the only things he’d ever done correctly in his tenure, but now that they were contributing to the disaster zone, Victoria was reconsidering her position.

Ringing diverted her attention. She approached the source close to the bar in slow motion, expecting someone to jump out at her at any moment, but she was alone. And on the stool, in a bright rectangle of light, was Warren’s phone. She examined it like a new, dangerous specimen of insect, turning it over as the ringing abruptly cut out.

A notification flashed on the screen. Victoria tapped in Warren’s passcode and flicked through the list, ignoring the missed calls from relatives and golf buddies. As she slid into the messages, the phone dinged in her hand with an incoming text from a restricted number.

She read it quickly, lingering on the one taunting word.

Answer.

Answer. Was that . . . did that mean X was going to call?

A second of doubt, and the phone rang again. Victoria gripped it tight and pushed accept. “Hello?”