Page 2

Chapter One

Tessa

PRESENT DAY

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Detective Warner’s voice is pitchy, and his fingers tremble as he fumbles around with the case files on his desk.

I mask my irritation, wondering if he’s ill-prepared for this meeting or just plain ill, judging from the shakiness. Not exactly the kind of person I want handling my mom’s case.

But then, beggars can’t be choosers. That the major crimes unit of the Valencia police department decided to reopen Mom’s case at all is something.

Maybe I can finally get the closure that has eluded me for six years.

find myself back in Valencia, a town I vowed never to return to.

“It’s not a problem,” I tell the detective, even though it is.

It's a huge problem. It looks like I'll be stuck here, just in time for my dad's wedding.

He's been through a string of girlfriends since Mom passed six years ago, but now getting married to Joyce Wilcox, a woman in her fifties who's been on TV.

She's striking for her age, but not his usual type. He tends to prefer shy, young, docile heiresses. Joyce is none of those things except for the heiress part.

Mom, on the other hand, was all of those things except that her family was dirt poor.

Whether Dad’s taste has changed or it’s Joyce’s wealth motivating him, I can’t tell.

In any case word will get out about me being back, and skipping my father’s wedding would stir up more gossip. Not that I care what folks think, but Dad does.

John Blackwell is all about keeping up appearances.

I tell myself I don’t give a shit what he thinks anymore since I haven’t seen or spoken to him in five years.

Yet, deep down, a part of me that I still haven’t managed to bury would hate to embarrass him.

“None of us expected this, you know.” Detective Warner flashes me a tight smile as he finally finds the case file he’s been looking for, and settles down in his seat. “I mean, it’s been six years since she died…”

I flinch as goosebumps rise on my skin. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to hear about my mom’s death without a chill running through my body.

“I’m sorry,” Warner says, no doubt seeing my reaction to his statement. “I know it’s a touchy subject.”

“It’s not.” My voice conveys a firmness I don’t feel.

It shouldn’t be touchy. I’ve come a long way from drowning my grief in alcohol and meaningless sex and have done very well for myself.

The co-op program was my ticket to Northeastern University without relying on my dad's money, but it extended my college years.

Now, in the last stretch of my work experience, Guardian Angels Network, the NGO I work with, have already offered me a senior role for after graduation.

So, I’ve done even better than I thought I would when I cried my eyes out five years ago on that wooden pier after Nathan King told me to leave.

Nathan.

My heart thuds painfully. Although I’d long stopped crushing on the man, his words had hung over me through the years, pushing me to work harder to prove myself.

They caused me to question my motives every time I flirted or hooked up with a random guy until I couldn’t bear to do it anymore.

Perhaps that was also why I’d found the strength to return when the police called.

I'm ready to confront my past, even if it means staying in this detested town.

Warner looks like he doesn’t believe my claim that I don’t find the subject touchy, but he doesn’t argue.

“I’ll cut right to the chase.” He says. “A few months after your dad sold the house, the new owner found some journals in the basement that he thought might interest us.”

Warner pulls open a case file and fingers a paper that looks like a copy of a lined journal. “I think you should read this.”

Instantly recognizing the handwriting as my mom’s, I reach for the paper with trembling fingers, then stare down at the words for a little longer, before I start to register what they say.

October 2 nd

Every day, I think back on everything. None of this should have happened. It’s all my fault. I was too weak.

Now, the curtain is drawing to a close. Dee keeps telling me that he is waiting for me, and I’m starting to believe him. It’s not true, but I can’t help believing.

He says that Black will sit on the balcony to watch me. Most nights, it’s hard to sleep. Because once I close my eyes, I’ll dream of him talking. And talking.

I have a feeling that I’ll be gone soon.

It’s probably for the best. But if I go and Tessa asks questions, he’ll play those deadly games again.

I let the paper flutter to the desk.

“What?” I croak. “What does this mean?”

Warner’s expression is grave. “That note was dated two months before she died. There are dozens of entries like that. We haven’t quite gotten through all of it yet, but we’ll release them into your possession once we’re done.”

Warner thumbs through a few of the journals as if to emphasize his next words. “Her words are full of metaphors, especially towards the end of her life, and it’s very difficult for someone who doesn’t know her to figure out what she meant. Or her writings could be the result of being disturbed. Either way, the bottom line is that we are concerned.”

He taps the case file. “They suggest that her death may not have been an accident as the inquest ruled.”

Or a suicide as the whispers suggested.

My heart misses a beat. “No.”

No way.

Six years ago, Mom fell from the balcony of her room and tumbled onto the asphalt below. She wasn’t found until morning when my dad returned from one of his long nights out.

He had a rock-solid, if very controversial, alibi: He’d been with another woman the time it happened.

The balcony floor was wooden and it’d been raining at the time, so it was assumed that she’d slipped while tending to her plants. She had possibly been leaning over to reach the overgrown vines, because next to her body was her watering can.

The only snag was that forensics put the time of her fall at about two in the morning. A very unusual time to be tending to plants. But then again, she was an unusual woman.

And now, these journals suggest that there could be more to her death and that she’d been afraid for me.

What did she mean by me asking questions?

What questions would I ask?

Who was going to play what games?

My brain whizzes with possible scenarios. Is it possible Mom was pushed off that balcony by an intruder?

“We need to ask you some questions,” Warner says now. “We know your father was out of the house for most of the day and the night of her death and that you were at college.”

Out of the house. That’s a nice way of putting it, I suppose.

He continues, “So, we thought that between the two of you, we could get enough information to assist with the case and–”

Assist. My mind paints a disturbing picture of my dad and me, sifting through Mom’s private journals with me reliving mom’s pain while enduring my dad’s scorn and impatience.

My dad used to be my favorite person in the world, but all that changed over time, and my passion for charity work annoyed the hell out of him.

He didn’t like the idea of me studying medicine, but he really flew off the handle when I informed him that I was leaving UCLA for Boston and changing my major to non-profit management.

Since then, things have gotten considerably cooler between us.

We don’t speak now, even though he keeps sending invitations for me to come to Thanksgiving, which I think is weird, but knowing my dad, he’s probably just doing it to keep up appearances.

Could my dad have gotten someone to do it?

He had no reason to kill Mom. She never questioned his affairs. And she had no money he would inherit. No family or pedigree.

She was already a sad, tortured woman. Why would anyone want to kill her? A shard of white hot pain hits me and I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

I thought I was strong enough to face this. I was wrong. Because this is so much worse.

I jerk to my feet. “I can’t do this.”

Warner looks up at me with furrowed brows. “Ms. Blackwell, I understand that this is very upsetting, but we need you to go through some of these papers. We’ve made copies for both yourself and Mr. Blackwell to review.”

He hands me a blue, plastic ring-bound folder, and although I feel a modicum of relief that my dad and I wouldn’t be doing it together, I rear back as though Warner’s offering me poison.

Warner urges, “Ms. Blackwell, this has a chance of becoming a real case, and we need as much information as we can get about–”

My phone starts to ring, interrupting him. I yank it from my pocket, relief flooding through me.

I’ll take any other conversation over one more second of reliving my mother’s death.

I glance at my phone screen, barely registering the name of the caller, then say to the detective, “I’m sorry, but I have to take this, it’s work.”

Warner opens his mouth to protest, but I dash out of his office and into the small, carpeted hallway that leads outside the police precinct before he can say anything more.

As if the phone call can save me from what I need to do.