“I know what I saw.” She should have those five words included on her next tattoo. Greta snapped the lock on the door and returned to the kitchen to top up her tea. Moments later, she curled up into the corner of one of the two sofas bookending the massive yet dormant gas fireplace, fingers tapping restlessly on her knee.
People. The main reason she preferred keeping to herself, staying in her home for long stretches of time, was people. It wasn’t healthy, as her friend Yvette kept telling her. And she knew the more time she spent alone, the harder it was to interact with anyone out there. But what was she supposed to do when something out of the ordinary happened, besides having to invite the outside in?
Cerberus leaped from his perch atop the bookcase and joined her, twining and weaving his way into her lap and under her arm. Greta hugged the cat close, closed her eyes and focused on the way her heart hammered in her chest. It was better than having the memory of that man lying motionless on the floor.
She’d given in to her first impulse and called 9-1-1. It hadn’t crossed her mind not to until she heard the voice on the other end of the phone. Another night. Another 9-1-1 call. Another murder. One that had hit much closer to home.
“Don’t do that. Don’t go there. That’s not where you exist anymore.” In her haste, she’d shattered her protected, carefully built world and invited a pair of detectives into her home. Detectives who seemed more interested in finding the right punch line than investigating a crime. Or at least one of them had. The other one...
Detective Jack McTavish. She inclined her head, frowned into the fading darkness even as the cinnamon tea sat spicy on her tongue. He’d been nice. Understanding. To a point. He knew her, knew her work. Maybe that had earned her the benefit of the doubt.
Did they think she didn’t know how far-fetched her story sounded? Even in her self-created bubble, she knew who Doyle Fremont was. And that, more than anything, could be why she’d been so shocked at what she’d seen. Regret pulsed through her. If only she had gone to sleep earlier, instead of extending her session to ten-plus hours. If she’d been asleep, she could have been dreaming about better times. The ones in the past and, hopefully, the better ones to come in the future.
But she hadn’t been sleeping. She hadn’t slept in days as the pressure about her upcoming show had continued to build. Insomnia was nothing new; it was one of the unhealthy ways her body dealt with stress. When she seemed to hover between worlds, where the veil between reality and dreams sometimes tangled. Greta chewed on her thumbnail. She remembered the pulse-pounding electronic club music coursing through the soundproof loft. The smell of fresh paint. She was never more awake—or alive—than when her brush touched the canvas.
She brushed tentatively over the leather bracelet she wore every day as a reminder that nothing was permanent, not even pain. She searched for the solace the Celtic symbols for courage, strength and compassion provided and, finally, edged away from the darkness.
Cerberus began to purr, pulling out of her hold and curling into a tight ball of protection in her lap. Greta continued to stroke his fur, grateful for the accepting company even as the image of a kind, masculine and handsome face drifted through her mind.
Detective Jack McTavish.
The sight of him had erased everything else in her head, just long enough to capture him on paper. It wasn’t often inspiration struck with the force of lightning, and that it still could release a torrent of adrenaline that had sent her buzzing. It hadn’t just been his looks, which were impressive. Something about him felt familiar in the gentle way he’d spoken with—and not to—her. Empathy wasn’t usually so openly transmitted, but beneath his attempt to connect with her, she picked up on the ache, on the sadness. The loneliness.
It had been clear in his eyes, eyes that from the moment she looked into the rich blue depths had transported her out of her controlled, solitary world into one of exploding colors and echoes of laughter on the wind.
“Okay, you have got to get some sleep.” Greta groaned. She didn’t need her erratic imagination taking her to places she dare not go.
Not for the first time tonight, her fingers itched to reach for her cell and call Yvette. Yvette, who knew more about Greta that just about anyone else. Yvette, who had been her only friend for what they’d laughingly called banishment education, shipped off to boarding school overseas. In Yvette’s case because of obscenely rich parents who were completely uninterested in overseeing even the tiniest detail of their child’s life. And in Greta’s case because her parents were dead.
Surrendering to Yvette’s push for Greta to step into the real world had brought her to Sacramento, where her recently married friend worked as the mayor’s deputy PR person. Which made what happened tonight Yvette’s fault, Greta thought with a smile. Oh, how she’d love to throw that at her friend the next time she saw her. But she wouldn’t. The last thing she needed was for Yvette to worry about her. A worry she’d set aside ever since Greta had taken up residence in her new home.
The swirling in her head returned, tempting her to surrender to the welcome, infrequent undertow. The promise of elusive sleep both energized and exhausted her.
“I know what I saw,” she murmured again. The privacy and solitude she’d eked out over the past few years fractured, cracking beneath the weight of her determination to cling to the truth as she saw it. The promise she’d made to Detective Jack McTavish floated back.
The police didn’t believe her, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let that stand.
Doyle Fremont was a killer.
She just had to prove it.
“Bowie says your midnight witness was hot.”
The cacophonous birthday-induced celebratory atmosphere of the Major Crimes squad at the Sacramento Police Department roared in Jack’s ears as he leaned back in his office chair. He’d survived his and Bowie’s visit to Greta Renault’s home three days ago, but he wasn’t so sure about his welcome back party. He did appreciate the mock chalk outline on the floor in front of his desk—cop mentality and humor at its finest. It was just about the only thing to have brought a smile to his face since he’d interviewed their enigmatic witness.
Something about Greta Renault continued to cling to him, call to him. So much so he’d made a few cursory passes at a background check. Maybe it was the haunted look in those starry blue eyes of hers. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at him at the end, as if she’d been expecting exactly the reaction she’d gotten. Normally Jack liked living up to people’s expectations.
But not in this case.
“My what?” The scent of burned coffee and sickly sweet cake permeated the air and coated the cops with a thick layer of powdered sugar. He looked up at Tammy, the evidence tech who had come up from the depths of the basement to help the squad rejoice in Jack’s triumphant return to the department. “Sorry, Tammy. What did you say?”
Tammy sighed in that overacting, community-theater way she had and hopped onto the corner of his desk. She kicked her feet against the drawers as she dug a fork into a fist-sized slice of chocolate marble cake. “I said Bowie said your witness from the other night was hot.” She took a bite and waggled her eyebrows at him. “He also said she’s—”
“Let me guess. Kooky.” The more Jack heard the word, the less he liked it. Especially in relation to Greta Renault. Eccentric, yes. Distracted? Sure. But she was also beautiful, intriguing and talented. Not to mention scared. He’d seen it. He’d felt it. “She’s different.”
“Uh-huh.” Tammy licked the frosting off her fork and snorted. “I’m sure that’s what he meant.”
Jack frowned. “What else did Bowie say?”
Something in his voice must have snagged Tammy’s sensor because she sat up straighter and ducked her head. “Not much.”
“Did he happen to mention she’s a world-renowned artist whose paintings have been commissioned for some of the most important buildings in the world, including the United Nations?”
“He did not.” Tammy arched a brow and took another bite. “He did say her cat might have come directly from the underworld. And you know what they say about cats and their owners.”
“What do they say?”
“Um...” Tammy pressed her lips against the fork and winced. “That they’re—”
Jack’s cell phone rang.
“Saved by the out-of-date ringtone.” Tammy jumped off his desk. “Gotta go.”
“Uh-huh.” Irritation he hadn’t been able to shake since leaving Greta’s loft surged afresh. He knew cops in general had their own way of dealing with the odd people involved in cases, but he did not like the way Bowie—and now others in the squad—were focusing on Greta’s unconventional behavior. Unfortunately, his caseload at the moment was practically nonexistent, which gave him far too much time to think.
He was beginning to wish Cole was here to help him out with this one after all. He needed a bit of camaraderie right now. But his sister would do in a pinch. So, rather than letting the call go to voice mail, he answered his cell. “Hey, Ashley. What’s up?”
“Just checking to see if you’ve popped any stitches yet.” His sister’s teasing voice did what it always did and soothed the rough edges.
“Ha, ha. They dissolved months ago, and you know it. Or didn’t they teach you anything in medical school.” Grateful for the diversion, he got up and headed to the stairs. Nothing better to clear his head than some fresh air and open space. “How was your trip? All nice and relaxed from the spa?”
“Funny enough, the trauma surgery convention didn’t leave much time for a massage or a mani-pedi.”
Neither had taking care of Jack for the past few months, but if there was one thing he knew about his sister, it was that she rarely took time for herself. “When did you get back?”
“About an hour ago.” He could hear her opening and closing the bare cabinets in his kitchen. “Thought I’d check in, see how it’s going. They have you shackled to the desk?”
How was it going? He hadn’t slept more than a few hours the last couple of nights. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that determined expression on Greta Renault’s face. How was it going? What a loaded question. “For the most part. Had a case the other night, though. Weird. Strange witness.” Great. Now Bowie had him doing it.
“Strange how?”
Grateful she didn’t make a joke about it, he let out a pent-up breath. “Strange as in I think I believe her even though her story sounds, well, unbelievable.” He winced at his own words. Why was he even still thinking about this? He’d been keeping an eye on the morgue roster. Checked in unofficially with contacts at local hospitals and clinics. No one had reported anyone fitting the victim’s general description. When his sister didn’t respond, he checked his cell, worried he’d dropped the call. “Ash?”
“I’m here. It’s only natural, after a traumatic injury like you had, to question your actions and thought processes, Jack. To wonder whether you’re thinking clearly. It also makes sense you’d question every decision you make.”
“You told me all this during my recovery.” A recovery she’d overseen personally after leaving her job in Chicago. The silver lining to his being shot: he’d given his sister the excuse she’d been looking for to start over somewhere else after her divorce.
“Nice to know you listened,” Ash joked. “You say you think you believe her.”
“I believe she believes it.” Was that the same thing? Or was he so bored he was looking for anything to latch on to? Or...was it something else?
“Sounds like you don’t want to believe her.”
“I don’t.” That niggling feeling, that gut-deep instinct he’d honed in the last dozen or so years, was speaking to him again, the same way it had back in Chicago. The fallout from that case had kicked a big hole in his career and driven him all the way to the West Coast. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe he just wanted to prove to Bowie and everyone else that he was still a good cop. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to see Greta Renault again. “It would make life a lot easier for everyone if she’s wrong.” Poking at Doyle Fremont with a stick was like tempting a political grenade to go off. The smart play was to just move on and forget about everything.
Including Greta Renault. Especially Greta Renault.
“Not like you to take the easy way,” Ashley said as more cabinet doors were slammed shut. “Seriously, Jack. Do I have to do all the grocery shopping? How hard is it to click a few buttons?”
“I keep forgetting.” When had online grocery shopping become an afterthought? Since Ashley had arrived the week after his shooting, she’d been taking care of all that stuff. Guess it was time to get back to his usual routine. He glanced at his watch. “I’m off in an hour. I’ll take care of it when I get home.”
“Yeah, well, I’m moving out soon, so you need to get used to living alone again.”
“You got a job?” Relief came first, followed by the knowledge that the friendship he’d strengthened with his little sister might be short-lived. They might have driven each other to distraction growing up, but she’d been his lifeline these last few months. That she’d dropped her entire life to help him get better had meant more than he could ever convey. Or repay. “Where?”
“Well, that’s the bad news.” Ashley sighed. “And so is this granola bar.” She coughed and choked. “I think it might actually be sawdust now.”
“I think the last owner left that there.” Jack lifted his face to the afternoon sun. A perfect day in Northern California really couldn’t be beat, not with the gentle breeze whistling through the trees and fallen leaves rustling along the sidewalk.
“Not funny,” Ashley grumbled. “Just for that, I’m not going very far. Folsom General was looking for an ER doctor, and they’ve offered me the position. I start in a month. So lucky you, you get to help me start house hunting.”
“Folsom, huh?” Jack couldn’t stop the smile from forming. With their parents and other brother still back East, it would be nice to have some family around, and the Sacramento suburb was a great area. “I guess that’s far enough away for me to miss you.”
“Just for that, I’m not cooking dinner.”
“And the good news keeps coming.”
“Ha, ha. Glad to hear you sounding back to normal. Hey, Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“If you even believe this woman for a second, see it through. You’ve never been one to let the politics of a case get in the way. Don’t start now.”
“Thanks, Ash.” Jack didn’t know why the advice helped, but it did. Like his own personal Jiminy Cricket perched on his shoulder, his sister’s words pushed him in the direction he was already headed. “I’ll pick up takeout for dinner on the way home.”
“Sushi, if you’re taking suggestions. From Mana.”
Of course she’d pick the restaurant completely in the opposite direction. But she was right. Best sushi in town as far as he was concerned. “You’ve got it. Thanks for calling, Ash.”
“Anytime. Don’t forget the sake.”
Greta had known for years she should expand her interaction with others, but stalking her millionaire businessman neighbor probably wouldn’t get her the results she wanted.
No, not stalking. Surveilling. Greta kicked free of the blankets and stared up into the predawn sky. It would have been easier to keep an eye on said neighbor if Doyle Fremont was actually in town. After spending a good portion of a day watching through a pair of her grandmother’s antique opera glasses for Fremont to return to his office, she’d built up the courage to call Fremont Enterprises to inquire about an appointment. She’d been told Mr. Fremont was out of town and not expected back in Sacramento until...
Greta blew out a long breath. Until today.
Of course that crumb of knowledge hadn’t stopped her from checking his window from her stakeout stool in the studio. Every time she went to get a cup of tea or go to the bathroom, she scanned the third-floor office for anything amiss. It was getting, Greta had to admit grudgingly, a bit obsessive.
It added to her list of things to worry about. She had a major showing in two weeks, a show that could catapult her into the big time. So far she’d been a word-of-mouth artist, perched on the edge of stardom, but this show was going to change everything. There were critics and reporters coming from as far away as New York. Now was not the time to fixate on what was not conducive to her productivity.
Her work was suffering, her creativity stifled even more than it had been before Detective Jack McTavish and his partner had come calling. The block she thought she’d busted through had shown up again thanks to the numerous impressions and images of the handsome detective.
“The handsome detective.” Greta actually snorted. “Sounds like an eighties cop show.”
She knew what she should do. She should put this whole thing out of her mind and get back to work. She’d reported what she’d seen. It was up to the police whether they followed through or not. But how could she walk away, never knowing for certain if what she’d seen was real?
No. She needed answers. She needed proof that what had happened had actually happened. Her peace of mind, her future depended on it.
She’d scoured the internet for news of any mention of a murder or even a body being recovered or found. There had been nothing—at least, nothing matching her memory—and the more time that passed, the more anxious she became.
Even now, days later, lying in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking.
She traced along the pattern of the thin, embossed leather cuff she wore as a reminder that there was always light after the dark. There was always a solution. Even when it seemed there wasn’t.
Any hope of peace vanished when Cerberus landed solidly on her chest. He poked his cold, demanding Feed Me nose against hers and had her rolling out of bed. While her tea brewed, she tried to shake off the unease yet another sleepless night had brought, the unwavering sensation that she’d opened the door to something that could never be shut again.
And no, she told herself, she didn’t mean Jack McTavish.
Restless, she strode out of the kitchen, drawn down the hall to the painting that had been taunting her for weeks. The canvas that she’d dubbed Fortress of Tranquility sat there, in the middle of the room, surrounded by mussed fabric tarps, paint spatter and a slightly askew worktable topped with paints, brushes and jars of mineral spirits and water. She’d given up last night. Walked away when she’d been unable to move beyond the mental block that even now pushed against her mind, but instead of finding peace, she’d turned right into an entirely different kind of nightmare.
So many emotions circled within her, she could barely identify them: fear, regret, anticipation, relief. They tumbled in and around each other like she’d tipped over one of her brush jars, scattering the stained handles into a mess. Now she knew to avoid looking out the windows; she didn’t want to be reminded of what she’d seen. She shifted her fractured attention to the painting she’d been struggling with for longer than she cared to admit.
It was humbling to be conquered by a canvas of mostly white. What did it say about her that she couldn’t seem to see beyond the vastness that sat like a beacon in the center of a room that had provided so much inspiration in the past? Had she offended her muse in some way? Done something to close the door to imagination and wonder that had, until recently, rarely failed her?
Greta sighed. Painting had been her refuge for as long as she could remember; it had never let her down before.
And that terrified her more than anything she might have witnessed the other night. Without her work, without her painting, what did she have? Why was she alive?
She snapped the thought out of her mind before it could fully form. “There’s no going down that path.” Her voice echoed in the studio, a crack of sound that shot her back into the reality of the moment. Whining about the situation wasn’t going to do a darned thing except exacerbate the hopelessness. She’d spent a lifetime learning to balance on the edge of that cliff. She wasn’t going to step off now.
Time to stop wallowing and get to work. But not, she decided, on the piece that continued to evade her. Nope. She needed something new, something completely different that would open her mind back up to possibilities.
Not for the first time, she pulled the canvas down, set it against the wall across the room and unearthed a new one, smaller, but not by much. The prep, the sound of the brush bristles scraping against the taut fabric soothed her nerves.
She never understood why she painted what she did, only that the compulsion needed assuaging. The colors, the form they took, sometimes swirling, sometimes dormant like the ocean after a storm, presented themselves at the end of her brush as if she was possessed. But always, always, amid the forces of nature and darkness, the woman appeared. Tall. Lithe. Silver-haired and faceless, embracing what approached or holding back what attacked. What loomed. What threatened.
Greta bit her lower lip, refusing to stop as the image formed out of the fog as if an answer to a desperate plea. She dipped her brush into the slick oil paint, a flesh tone she rarely used but for some reason had prepared and surrendered. And there, seconds, minutes, hours later, her mind loosened, and a thin ray of idea-laden light burst through.
It was his eyes, Greta realized as she dipped the needle-thin tip of her outlining brush into the glossy blue, that called to her. His face was as perfect on the canvas as it had been inches from her own. She moved in, added a droplet of golden yellow into the blue that had her inner critic singing. Her hand continued to sweep and capture every microcosm of detail she’d made note of when she’d sketched him in the kitchen. Only when she stepped back to examine the nearly finished piece did she pick up on the depths of who he was.
She’d spent most of her life watching, observing. Studying the few who stepped in and out of her path. She’d always purposely kept everyone at a distance, but from the moment she’d first set eyes on Detective Jack McTavish, something inside of her had stirred. Unfamiliar. Tempting. Exciting. And, when she stopped to really think about it, utterly terrifying. It was that fear that kept the brush moving, kept her bare, paint-splattered feet on the wrinkled tarp.
Her apprehension hadn’t stopped her from committing his details to memory, such as his sturdy shoulders that told her he could take on a lot. The way his dark blond hair brushed evenly across the collar of his blazer, showing he took pride in his appearance, a supposition seconded by his clean-shaven face at such an early hour.
A nightmare, not a dream, had brought him into her life. Fleeting perhaps, but for long enough to impact her.
Her hand stilled as the fear scuttled to life once more. These emotions, these thoughts, all these rioting sensations had arrived on the wings of a darkness she could only pray she hadn’t imagined.
She didn’t trust many people; she never had, and chances were she never would, but there was something about Jack McTavish that made her wish her abilities in that direction were stronger. Maybe all she needed was a bit of practice. Maybe it was time to step further out of that self-imposed solitude and...
Greta jumped when Cerberus wound his sleek gray body between her feet and rubbed his head against her calf, his purr at jet-engine setting. She blinked, glancing over at the paint-spattered clock sitting perfectly straight on one of the organized shelves.
Her stomach growled, not an uncommon occurrence when she got lost in her work. She didn’t bother to examine what she’d created as she set the paint and brush down and returned to the kitchen to rebrew the tea that had gone cold. Because her stomach demanded it, she toasted up half a bagel.
Still embracing the residual haze that followed her out of a bout of work, she found herself wandering to the hall window just outside her studio. Before the last of the fog cleared her mind, she sipped her tea and, wedged behind the thin layers of fabric, watched the constant stream of moving vans and construction workers putting the finishing touches on the new Fremont Complex.
Bile rose in her throat. She tried to resist looking at the window. How did they do it? she wondered. How did everyone scuttle about their lives as if nothing had happened? As if everything was normal. As if nothing had changed.
Everything about the other night, right down to the police officers’ reaction, told her it had all been some kind of dream.
Except she knew it wasn’t.
Didn’t she?
Jack pulled his SUV behind an open moving truck parked less than a block from the soon-to-open Fremont business complex.
Ashley had been right yesterday. Stewing about this case wasn’t going to do anything than raise his blood pressure. Chances were Greta Renault had been sleepwalking or dreaming or...something. But simply walking away without asking any questions? That wasn’t who he was.
He’d just needed a not-so-gentle reminder of that fact.
He leaned over, craned his neck to look up and out of the windshield. “The guy definitely knows how to refurbish a building.”
Not to be outdone by the likes of those companies that maintained a massive presence in the Bay Area, Doyle Fremont was centralizing all of his businesses—real estate, technology research and about a half-dozen other sub-interests Jack hadn’t committed to memory—into the block-long, seven-story, all-inclusive structure. Not only did the complex include a dozen apartments, but there would be a five-star lobby restaurant open to the public, a state-of-the-art tech store, a meditation garden on the roof for employees, valet service and its very own custom coffee shop.
Personally, Jack preferred the blood-curdling coffee and stale donuts of the squad room. Which was where he had spent his morning running down basic information on Doyle Fremont and his various enterprises and connections. Near as Jack could tell?
The guy was so clean he squeaked. No one, at least no one in Jack’s extensive investigative experience, was that clean. No one.
“Dropping off or picking up?” One of the moving men called out to him as he locked up his car. About as tall as he was wide, the mover barely gave a glance to another man in the truck who handed him an oversize box.
“Neither. Job interview,” Jack lied. “I’m not parked in a loading zone, right?”
“You’re fine. Just go around front. We’ve got the freight elevators locked down.”
“No problem.” Jack gave a polite wave and hustled down the street as if he was late for his appointment. Before he rounded the corner, he stopped, pretended to check his phone as he glanced up and across the street at Greta Renault’s building. Having been inside the charming space, he recognized the shorter windows as those in her studio while the taller ones were in the hall; the curtains had been reserved for the living room.
One of the curtains shifted slightly, but when he didn’t see any sign of Greta, he assumed it was her cat getting his exercise. Jack angled his phone up, snapped a few pictures to remind himself later as to what could be seen from where. He rounded the corner and pushed through one of the heavy glass lobby doors rather than walking through the lazy, roundabout entrance.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think the Fremont Complex was already open for business. There was a security counter off to the left, manned by two uniformed guards currently clicking through the multiple screen displays flashing across monitors built into the wall behind them as they adjusted hookups and plugs. Instead of stale, air-conditioned office air, Jack found himself inhaling something close to pure oxygen, no doubt the result of the lush greenery planted around the spacious area. As he looked up, he saw the lobby stretched all the way to the skylighted roof, with an open floor plan outlining the expanse of the building. He remembered reading that Fremont had originally planned to build on the empty rail-yard property, but at the last minute, about eight months ago, he’d changed course and bought this former hotel and invested double the cost in the extensive remodel. Given all that had been done in the time, Jack guesstimated Fremont had sunk a good portion of his fortune into the project. Why the rush? It was only one of a hundred or so questions Jack had.
“Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”
“Very.” Jack’s response was automatic as he faced the man behind him. “Fritz?”
“How ya doin’, Jack?” Doug Fritzhugh, a former cop who could have made a living as a pro wrestler, slapped a surprisingly gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t look too worse for wear.”
“Doing okay, thanks.” Aside from longing for the day people didn’t look at him as if he were a walking miracle, he thought. “Haven’t seen you since your retirement party.” Jack took in the gray security uniform and shiny gold nameplate. He’d heard through the grapevine Fritz had made a jump up in the world into private high-end security for a well-recognized company. It hadn’t taken much to find out where. The answer had been a lucky break for Jack. “I see it didn’t take.”
“Retirement? Oh, it took just fine for me.” Fritz guided Jack out of the way of an oversize leather sofa being carted in from outside. “The wife lasted about a month before she was begging me to get a job. I had a few connections, made a couple calls, and voilà. Head of security for this place.”
Jack smirked at the phrase. “You’re going to have your hands full. Lots to take care of, I’d imagine.”
“Compared to thirty years on the force, this is gonna be a slice of heaven. Well-paid heaven.” Fritz lowered his voice and laughed. “You looking to make a change? Wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
“You know me, Fritz,” Jack said. “I never rule anything out. I was driving by a few days ago, thought maybe I’d check the place out. Don’t suppose I could talk you into a tour?” He glanced up.
“Well, sure.” Fritz shrugged. “Let me get my boys settled, and I’ll show you around. Can’t take long, though. The boss is due back today, and we’re trying to get as much done as we can.”
“Due back? He’s been away?” Jack followed Fritz over to the security desk and signaled for a guest badge.
“Los Angeles. Some big fundraising shindig. Quite the deal, from what I hear. My wife pays more attention to that stuff than I do. Here you go. Clip that to your jacket.” Fritz handed over the badge that clearly designated him as an outsider. “The coffee bar’s already in full swing if you want something. Where do you want to start?”
“How about upstairs?” Jack kept his tone neutral. “Like, maybe the third floor?”
In some ways, Greta thought, surveillance was like watching a movie. All that was missing was a monster bowl of popcorn and butter-covered fingers.
As she had over the past few days, Greta sat on one of her kitchen stools, a bottle of water perched on the sill of the window and her grandmother’s antique opera glasses, one of her few prized possessions, held up to her face. They didn’t help much, but enough she could scan faces and spot movement. As if she couldn’t spot Doyle Fremont in a crowd. Who was she expecting to see? Her murder victim?
Her hands went icy at the thought, and she swallowed hard. Well, that would answer that question, wouldn’t it? “Great. Now I’m sounding strange even to myself.” Cerberus let out a tiny meow from where he was sitting at her feet. “Sorry, Cerb. I know I’m supposed to be painting, but I can’t get this out of my mind.”
It was as if the rest of the world had fallen away, her painting, her routine, even her cell phone forgotten, although as far as the latter was concerned, she rarely paid it any mind. She’d already ignored three calls from her friend Yvette because she always knew when Greta was keeping a secret. Only problem with avoiding the phone was that Yvette would get irritated enough to pop by to check on her. Whatever. Greta would deal with that when she had to.
As if reading her mind, her cell rang again. With a growl of frustration, Greta got up, left the glasses on the stool and hurried into the living room to answer the phone. “Yvette, everything’s just fine.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Uncle Lyndon.” Greta sighed and sank onto the arm of the sofa. She really needed to pay attention to her caller ID. “No reason.” She cringed at the idea of lying, but it was better than the truth, at least in this case. Lyndon Thornwald, her late father’s best friend, had long been the only constant in her life, acting as both her lawyer and legal guardian while she’d been a minor, then as her agent when her career began to take off. “When does your flight get in?”
“I was scheduled to arrive this afternoon.”
Greta’s stomach dropped. Today? Oh, that wouldn’t work at all. She peeked over the back of the sofa and out the window. Doyle Fremont was due back today. Now was definitely not the time to host a houseguest. Except... “Did you say you were scheduled?”
“That’s why I’m calling. One of my clients passed away this morning, so I’m tied up in New York and can’t get out there until next week at the earliest. So unless you want to reschedule your show, you’ll need to meet with Ms. Sorenson at the gallery this week on your own.”
“Oh.” Greta nibbled on a paint-stained thumbnail. “Okay.” She’d never handled one of these meetings on her own before. With the attention span of a dying gnat, important details didn’t always stay in her mind the way they should. That said, Collette Sorenson, the curator of the renowned Camellia Art Museum, held great sway over the West Coast art world. The last thing Greta wanted to do was alienate a woman who could have a substantial influence on her career.
“I guess I can do that.” Even as she said the words, the anxiety built in her chest. This was why she should leave the house more often, so what needed doing outside these walls wasn’t so terrifying. “I’m probably in need of a change of scenery anyway.” Was she trying to convince him or herself? “Before it’s time to move on.” She was already closing in on a year, and she rarely stayed anywhere longer than that.
The hesitation was slight on Lyndon’s part, but it was there. “So soon?”
“It’s been ten months.” If there was one constant in her life, it was her determination to avoid anything remotely permanent. Permanent meant commitment, meant promises, and with her uncertain future, she had no business making either. “I was considering Portland.”
“If that’s what’s best.”
“You don’t think I should move?” Definitely not the reaction she’d expected. “You’re the one who’s always said the longer I stay anywhere the more likely it is someone will dig up my past. Besides, I like building up my real estate portfolio.” Not that she needed to. The family money she’d inherited when she was six years old was more than enough on its own. But she liked the idea of owning bits and pieces around the country and abroad, although she had never gone back to any of them. Some people put pins in maps. She collected real estate. “Unless you think—”
“I think you should do what you want to do, Greta.” There was an exhaustion in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “I just assumed since Yvette was so close now, you might want to stay a bit longer.”
That might have been true before her ill-advised guilt-call to 9-1-1. Greta rubbed her fingers across her forehead. All the more reason she should be relieved Detective Jack McTavish and his sidekick hadn’t taken her seriously. She’d spent most of her life trying to bury the past. She certainly didn’t need the police digging into it. “Maybe someday I’ll stop, but not now. I don’t want to take a chance.”
“We can talk about it when I arrive. You’re certain about meeting with Ms. Sorenson yourself?”
The doubt was there, just like the doubt she’d heard from Deputy Bowman, the doubt she felt in herself. She was rubbish around people; at times she could barely hold a conversation without getting distracted or going off in another direction. An unexpected flash of Jack McTavish exploded in her mind and for a moment, thanks to the image of his dimpled smile, she almost forgot what she and Lyndon were discussing. “I’m sure.”
“I’m going to send you a list of things we need to confirm. Please be sure you go over it. Whatever else you need to discuss with her is up to you.”
“All right.” She had the entire weekend before she had to go to the museum on Monday, but she was already getting nervous. In a good way. “Was there anything else?”
“Just remember, it’s difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. Life is going to change for you after this show, Greta. We all need to be ready for it.”
“At least with genies you get three wishes,” Greta teased because she felt he needed it. “If I have any questions about the meeting, I’ll text you.” This must have been what Dorothy felt when she’d emerged from her black-and-white world into glorious Technicolor. All that promise, the hope she’d find down the yellow brick road, it was all just waiting for her. This could be the start to an adventure, something she’d avoided all her life. All she needed to do was take the first step. “This is the right move. It’s my work, my future. I need to take better care of both.”
His silence didn’t last quite so long this time. “I worry about you, Greta,” he said finally. “I don’t want—”
“I know.” Greta swallowed around a suddenly tight throat. “I know what you’re afraid of. But I’m not my mother.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the past and the pain. Against the terror that the darkness would swallow her as it had her mother. That she would become a danger not only to herself but to those around her. All the more reason to keep her life as solitary as possible. No matter how lonely it might be. “And you will be here for the show, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She could hear the scratching of the eagle topped fountain pen she’d given him when she was ten years old. No doubt he was scribbling on a piece of monogrammed stationary. The idea made her lips twitch. Lyndon Thornwald was so old-school that history textbooks could use him as a footnote. “Just let me know how the meeting goes.”
“I will give you an update as soon as I have one,” Greta promised and after a few more minutes, they hung up.
She wasn’t entirely sure what excited her more: taking a professional meeting all on her own or having the perfect excuse to take her time exploring the wonder of the Camellia Art Museum, which currently hosted a small, privately owned Salvador Dalí collection.
Even before its renovation and expansion, the acclaimed art museum had long been considered a source of pride for Sacramento. For years, collections from all over the world had been displayed in the old Victorian built in 1872, but now most art pieces were displayed in the modern pavilion that had been constructed next door. She’d been working toward this for the past five years: her first private showing in a major gallery. All the more reason to keep her wits about her.
The idea of leaving her tidy, comfortable world didn’t cause as much trepidation as it might have last week. Yes, this was her place where everything was in her control. But out there? She resisted the urge to look out the window. Well, the other night was the perfect example of what happened out there, but beyond that, she could only imagine what inspiration she might find. She needed to embrace the opportunity.
Greta tossed her phone down and headed back to her stool and resituated herself with her glasses. Her view caught on the window across the street as she angled the glasses at the third floor. She blinked against the sunny glare on the glass and turned her head away to get rid of the spots from her eyes. When she looked again, for the second time she found two men standing in the office in question.
One guy was a uniformed security guard she’d noticed earlier and the other...
Greta gasped and nearly dropped the glasses. “Jack.”
Except he wasn’t smiling. Not one little bit.