She pressed READ, dreading what she might see.
It was a picture of a blond-haired woman applying cherry-red lipstick in the front seat of a car. The woman wore a blue oxford shirt and an expensive gold watch—the same ones Mr. Kahn had worn during the pool game. Add in his telltale bushy eyebrows and straight mouth, and anyone would know it was him. The clock on the dashboard of his car said 1:35—three minutes ago. The tall, iron eagle on the post in the corner of the picture was the eagle at the Kahns’ front gate. He’d put on the wig before he’d even left the property.
Aria ran to the window, certain she’d see someone lurking at the end of the driveway, but there was no one there. Sweat beaded on her forehead. No.
“Aria?” Noel called from the hall. “Are you okay?”
Aria dropped the curtain and whipped around. Noel was walking toward her. She fumbled for the ERASE button on her phone, not wanting Noel to see the picture, but her finger bumped the right arrow instead, bringing up a note that went with the picture. As Aria read it, her heart stopped dead.
Secrets are such a drag. Break up with your loving boyfriend, or this pic goes public. —A
18
THE HOME OF HER DREAMS
“Welcome to the open house!” a cheery realtor with a stiff black hair-helmet said as she ushered Emily and Aria through the open door of 204 Ship Lane. She thrust a square business card into each of their hands. “My name is Sandra. Have a look around!”
Emily turned the card over. Let me find you the home of your dreams, Sandra’s slogan read. “Actually, I was wondering—” she started, but Sandra was already attending to a new couple who had come in after them.
Shaking out her umbrella and pushing back the hood of her raincoat, Emily stepped into the foyer of the house she’d obsessed over for the past seven months. It was empty, and only a few hints of the Bakers remained. The air smelled like a peppermint candle and Windex. The walls were painted a cheerful blue, and in the open closet was a blue plastic wrapper for the Philadelphia Sentinel. There were tiny scratches in the golden wooden floor from dog toenails, and someone had left a God’s-eye string ornament hanging over the door.
Emily stared at the brass strip that separated the tiled foyer from the wooden living room floor, afraid to step any further into the house. Was she really ready to see this place?
Aria turned to Emily, as if sensing her apprehension. “Are you okay?”
“Uh huh,” Emily said woozily. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“No problem.” An uneasy look swept over Aria’s face, but when she noticed Emily looking at her, she quickly smiled again.
“Are you okay?” Emily asked.
Aria’s jaw trembled. “I don’t want to bother you with it. You’ve got enough going on.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Come on. What?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Aria leaned in closer, her feather earrings brushing against Emily’s cheek. “Well, okay. I got a note from A about an hour ago.”
Emily’s mouth dropped open. “What did it say?”
Aria pressed her glossy lips together. “It doesn’t matter. Just some stupid stuff. But I was at Noel’s house, and A took a picture of something at the end of Noel’s driveway. A was so close, and I missed seeing who it was.”
A shiver snaked up Emily’s spine. “Remember the note I got on my car at the covered bridge? The one with the picture of me and Tabitha? A was close then, too.”
Aria skirted out of the way of two more people who had come through the front door. “How is it that we keep missing A? And how does A always know where we are?”
“Ali would always know where we were,” Emily said quietly.
Aria’s shoulders lowered. “Em, A isn’t Ali. There’s no way.”
Emily shut her eyes. She was so sick of having the same argument over and over. But she couldn’t explain why she was convinced Ali wasn’t dead—she’d have to confess that she’d left open the door in the burning house in the Poconos.
Aria stepped into the living room. The blue carpet had deep indentations from where the furniture had stood. “A is definitely Gayle, Em. Remember how weird she was that day at the café? She’s totally capable of stalking us.”
“But it makes no sense.” Emily glanced over her shoulder to make sure an elderly couple in matching argyle sweaters wasn’t listening. “Gayle has no connection to Jamaica. How could she know what we did?”
“Are you sure you didn’t say anything to anyone?” Aria asked. “What about that friend of yours, Derrick? He worked for Gayle, right? Are you sure you didn’t slip and tell him anything about Tabitha?”
Emily whirled around and glared at Aria. “Of course not! How could you even think that?”