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“The night Emily Logan was killed?” O’Brien asked, even though they both knew the importance of the date. “I was in Mexico, speaking at a conference. Feel free to email me for the details to verify them.”
Raisa smiled, hoping to ease the sting of the question. “I had to ask.”
“Yeah,” O’Brien said, not looking too put out. “Can I askyousomething?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think Emily got too close to Isabel Parker? Is that why she’s dead?” He sounded worried, like his class had been what sent her careening headlong into danger.
“Honestly? I don’t know.” She knew why he was asking and felt reasonably sure she could offer him some comfort. “But I’ve read her blog posts. She was interested in the topic long before your class.”
O’Brien nodded, though he didn’t seem convinced. “Okay, thanks.”
Her hand was on the door when he called out to her.
“Hey.”
Raisa turned to find him studying her.
“Emily, she was intrigued the most about the families of the victims.” He paused and licked his lips. “But also the families of the serial killers. I think she found that topic most fascinating of all—how it must be, to be associated with evil like that.”
“So, everyone knows that I’m Isabel’s sister.”
“It’s Gig Harbor, kid,” O’Brien said, in a poorChinatownimpression. “Everyone knows everything about our most infamous resident.”
Chapter Seventeen
Delaney
Day Five
Roan, of the Carolina mountains, tried to linger, but Delaney shoved him on his way. He’d served his purpose—the few hours of mindless relief had been worth the risk. But she wasn’t about to get sloppy now that dawn had broken.
Delaney sat cross-legged on the rumpled hotel bed and pulled her new laptop closer so she could plug in the USB with Isabel’s notes on it.
Even though she had them memorized, she pulled up the first one she’d received, which had set this whole debacle into motion.
Dear Delaney. Let’s play a game. To get the rules, you must come see me.
I know, I know, I know. You don’t want to do that.
But my dear sister, you will not like what happens if you don’t.
She wondered, as she always did when she read these, if Raisa had received her own messages. What was the game Isabel wanted Raisa to play? How did the two of theirs interlock?
Because wasn’t that the important part? It wasn’t what Isabelsaidthe game was—it was what she wanted her sisters to do, for reasons neither of them could know. Delaney had gone to talk to Isabel, had heard the parameters of the “game,” had heard the consequences, and yet she still didn’t know what part she was inadvertently playing on Isabel’s chessboard.
“Find a killer,” Isabel had said.
“Kill the killer,” Isabel had said.
“Become as bad as me” had been silent, but relayed in the space between words.
Delaney still didn’t understand the realwhy, though. And until she did, she wouldn’t be able to beat Isabel.
The one thing she hadn’t ever been able to do when her sister was alive.
The obvious choice was to simply not play.