Page 83

I crouch down next to her and speak softly so Cody can’t hear. “What do you see?” I ask.
She leans in and whispers, “Luke isn’t the right shape.”
I blink. “Huh?”
“He doesn’t fit her. Isla’s got a different shape. Like a puzzle piece. But not an outside shape. It’s an inside shape. Isla’s too busy thinking about what everyone else wants to notice,” Grace says morosely. “Is that what grownups do all the time?”
“Actually, I think most grownups are up their own butts about whattheywant,” I say. “And they don’t give a crap about anyone else.”
Grace giggles. “You said butts and crap.”
I chuckle. “They felt appropriate.”
For a while, we sand the dresser drawers in silence. Cody heads into the office for lunch, and I’m just about to suggest we take a break when Grace pipes up again.
“You’re still investigating your mom’s murder, right?” she asks.
“Yeah. Well, to be honest, I just got some news that makes me feel like I’m at a dead end.”
Grace tilts her head. “Did you start with victimology?”
“Hm?”
“Like I told you at the library.”
That was weeks ago. My brain spins back to try and recall what she said. Mostly, I remember Isla, her hair spilling over one shoulder, the curve of her collarbone, her knee almost touching mine.
Grace huffs at my poor memory then explains it to me slowly. “You need to start by looking at the victim.”
“You think my mother was…what? Targeted? Specifically?”
Grace shrugs. “I don’t know. But I don’t think anyone ever looked at the case like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because all the papers talked about was a random burglar. Or you. But we know it wasn’t you.”
“You read the newspaper?”
“I read everything. Anyway, I don’t think it was a burglar because there are easier ways to get money.” She lifts the newly sanded drawer and slides it back into place. “Maybe your mom had a secret. Or maybe someone wanted something from her.”
“My mom didn’t have any secrets,” I say.
Grace stares up at me with those wise eyes. “The point of secrets is that no one knows about them.”
My thoughts suddenly flash back to the day I started my little murder board.
The locked drawer in the blue study. The study where Mom would write her correspondence.
Secrets.
“Grace, you’re a genius,” I say.
“I know,” Grace replies.
“I have to go,” I say. “Tell Reggie I left, okay? He or Cody can hang out with you here. Thanks. Thanks a million.”
And with that, I rush out of the garage.