Page 40 of Dead Love

Shea grit her teeth, staring down at the doormat beneath her feet, then her chin flicked up.

“You think Nyla is a part of this?”

“I think Nyla might be a key that’s been neglected. Maybe her family knows something.”

She stepped forward, grabbing my hand. I flinched.

“Please. If you know anything, please help me. Nyla’s family has been here, right? They won’t return my calls. They’re too busy. They aren’t concerned with my daughter. But if you could ask them for me, maybe they’ll listen to you. I know they’re grieving, but—” A tear fell down her cheek. “I don’t know what else to do.”

We stood there in silence, and heat bubbled inside of me. I let it linger, acting like I was disturbed by Shea’s pain, when the opposite was true.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mrs. Nova,” I said.

“Thank you,” Shea said.

“Sheriff Mike must be able to question them,” I offered. “Can’t he help you with that?”

“He’s so busy with the campaign. You know how he gets right before an election. I can’t—” She rubbed her forehead, looking down at her feet again. It must have been difficult to have a picture-perfect life ripped away from you. To have a husband who was too busy trying to get re-elected to focus on his personal problems. To have a daughter that was no longer under your control.

“If I remember anything, I’ll call you.” I paused, pretending to think it over. “I’m sure she’s out there.”

“Thank you,” she said, tears filling her eyes. Then, without another word, she got into her car and drove away.

Once she was gone, I settled into my tasks for the day. A body removal. Tidying the grounds while I waited for a family to sign paperwork. An embalming finished the day, someone who had lived a long life, dying of natural causes.

That night, I relaxed in the studio, staring at the blank canvas. I thought about Kora in the mausoleum, the way the moonlight seemed brighter then, with her underneath it. I dipped the paintbrush into the jar of blue, then stroked the canvas.

A knock echoed down the hallway. I opened the door to the basement: Kora stood before me in a tank top, leggings on her hips, all the material clinging to her skin. Comfortable. Natural.

“I changed my mind,” she said. I tilted my head, waiting for her to explain. “About modeling. Do you want me to pose?”

A heaviness lifted from my shoulders.

“Let me get my supplies,” I said. Then I closed the basement door and locked it.

I returned with my easel, paints, and a canvas, setting up inside of the loft. She sat on the couch, and I positioned her so that she resembled that night in the mausoleum. As I brushed the strokes of her neck on the canvas, working next on the shape of her shoulders, I asked, “What made you change your mind?”

“Boredom,” she said, a twinge of flirtation in her eyes. Then she let out a small laugh. “I wanted to thank you for taking me to Nyla’s grave last night. This modeling,” she motioned around us, her new ring flashing under the chandelier’s light, “seemed like a good option.”

That was unexpected. Something inside of her had shifted. And now, that change was more evident than ever.

“Have there been any more Echo deaths?” she asked.

“None last night.”

“That’s good.” She paused, tilting her head. “I wonder why the killer skipped last night.”

“Coincidence. Or the body hasn’t been found.”

“You’re probably right.”

For a while, we didn’t say anything. The brush stroked the canvas, my empty fingers tapped my leg.

“My father will help,” she said confidently, breaking the silence.

“Your mother says he’s too busy with the election.”

Her eyes darted up to me, her body deviating from the pose. “You spoke to my mother?”