"So that's how you could afford the ten thousand dollars you put into my account. But I don't understand—" Annie took a step into the living area, toward Sarah. "You don't live like a Linwood."
The older woman smiled thinly. "Nor do I look like one, at least not anymore. Annie, I'm sorry. I knew you didn't realize who I was the other day, but I thought—I assumed you knew about the murders."
The Linwood murders. Yes, Annie thought, feeling sick to her stomach. Now she remembered. Not everything—not the details— but enough to understand that sense that she'd been overlooking something she knew, missing something. "I suppose I did know. But I didn't—I just didn't make the connection between the auction today and a sensational case I read in the papers five years ago."
"It's my fault. I should have explained. I've struggled to maintain my privacy—to go on with my life—and perhaps was more secretive than I should have been, in fairness to you. I hope you don't feel used."
Annie stared out the windows overlooking San Francisco, noticing that the sun was shining through the clouds, scraps of blue sky visible, giving the city a sun-washed look. It was so damned pretty. She hadn't headed west to escape life's ugliness; she wasn't naive that way. But she hadn't expected it to catch up with her so soon, so terribly. She'd bought a painting of a murdered girl out from under the man who'd married and lost her. She was standing here, talking to a misshapen woman—a Linwood —whose father and niece had been murdered, who was obviously trying to keep her location secret from her wealthy, prominent family.
"I just thought," Sarah went on tiredly, "that it would be simpler and easier if you didn't know who I was. You wouldn't be tempted to tell anyone, you'd have nothing to hide. Believe me, if Garvin MacCrae sensed you were trying to hide something from him, there'd be no peace."
"Why? Does he think you had anything to do with the murders?"
Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know what Garvin thinks. That I didn't tell the police everything I know, that I led them to the real killer, that I helped him get away. I just don't know. I haven't seen him in so long..." Her voice trailed off; the faded pink of the chintz cushions behind her made her face seem even grayer. "Maybe I should have stayed away."
"Why did you leave? If it made people suspicious—"
Her vivid eyes focused on Annie. "I left because I had to. I didn't think much about the consequences. I just knew I had to leave."
"But now you've come back."
"To San Francisco, yes."
But not to her family, Annie thought. The Linwoods—and her niece's husband—didn't know she was in town. "Did you come back because you'd heard your family home was being sold?"
"That's one reason. The catalyst, I suppose. I read about it in the papers, and I knew I had to come home. Again, it was impulsive, with the same certainty I felt when I knew I had to leave."
"Then why not go buy the painting yourself? It would have been a way to let your family know you're back."
She shook her head. "I couldn't. I—I'm not ready."
"But you were willing to go to all the trouble of finding me, hiring me—"
"That wasn't just because of the painting." She sat forward, just a little. "I want you to represent my work, Annie. When I'm ready." She looked toward the painting Annie had just delivered, the strawberry-haired girl smiling, innocent. "Soon."
Annie didn't feel the thrill she'd expected to feel; it would have seemed greedy, selfish, given the circumstances. She'd never met anyone as strange and as compelling as this plain, soft-spoken woman. "When you're ready, I'd be honored. The painting—did you want it so much because it's your work?"
"I'd thought my brother had destroyed it."
"What? How could he—"
"I'd painted it. It was of his only child whom he'd lost in such a horrible way. It had hung in the room where she and Father were killed. It was too painful to keep—but also apparently too painful for him to destroy." She inhaled through her nose, plainly holding back tears. "It's all I have of Haley. I wanted it for myself, Annie. There's no other reason."
Annie nodded thoughtfully. "I think I understand. You were able to capture something—"
"Not capture. When Haley sat for me, she gave me her spirit. She gave me everything she was. I suppose"—she bit her lower lip and sighed heavily—"I suppose I wanted some of her back."
"Sarah—"
She waved a hand, dismissing Annie's concern. "Now. About our deal. Can you keep my secret?"
"Does anyone else know you're in San Francisco?"
"No. Only you, at least for now."
Annie glanced at the recent canvases, at the framed portrait of the strawberry-haired girl. Could she have guessed, then, that her life would be a short one?
"I won't be committing a crime?"
Sarah smiled sadly and shook her head.
Annie glanced at the tattered furnishings in Sarah's tiny house, the decades-old appliances. A Linwood didn't have to live this way. "Yes," she said, "I can keep your secret."