Page 50 of The Grave Artist

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her a curt nod in response.

She got to her feet. “Is the bathroom still in the hallway?”

“That’s right. The code is one two three eight.”

After leaving his office she walked down the corridor, passed by the restroom and continued toward the door to what had been her father’s office, now sealed off from Overton’s but accessible from here.

Was it occupied? What would she say to whoever was inside?

If it was empty, would the door be locked?

Didn’t matter.

Locked or not, she would get in.

She reached the closed door and looked at the sign above it.

Storage

Of course, no one else had wanted to work in a space that had seen such tragedy.

She twisted the knob. Locked. But it was a simple mechanism and, after making sure no one was around, she removed a flexible plastic rectangle—a sporting goods store loyalty card—from her wallet. Usingan old burglar’s trick her sister had casually mentioned to her years ago, she kept working the card against the dead bolt until it was pushed from the hole in the frame. The door swung open. After casting another furtive glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Gone were the pair of black leather chairs she and her sister would lounge in, playing video games or reading books on the Saturdays and Sundays Roberto came in to get work done and not have to be concerned about client visits.

Gone were the modern desk and sleek credenza.

Gone were the empty file boxes the girls had stacked to build fortresses.

Gone, the family pictures that were everywhere, from walls, to filing cabinets to credenza, to desk.

Ah, the desk, she thought, blinking back tears. The desk with the dent in the front that Carmen said looked like a belly button, making Selina dissolve into giggles.

The desk where Roberto had been forced to write the note, a copy of which burned in her pocket.

My goddesses . . .

And the anger returned, nearly blinding her.

Slowly, she turned to face the window.

After a steadying breath, she walked toward it. Her fingers, suddenly cold and nerveless, fumbled to release the latches. She grasped the metal hooks at the bottom of the sash, but it was stuck. After a considerable amount of tugging and cursing, the lower pane slowly squeaked up. A cool breeze blew over her sweat-damp skin, raising goose pimples.

Swallowing the bile creeping up the back of her throat, she bent and leaned her upper body out. Her gaze traveled to the parking lot far below. Carmen had gotten the entire police file, which contained the crime scene photos, Selina was sure. But her sister had sent her only the note.

Just as well. She didn’t want to see her father’s body bloody and broken.

But now, she did have to see the place where he died.

What had he been thinking as he sailed through the air? Had he been conscious or, as Carmen believed, had the killer knocked him out after he wrote the note? Although, privately, Selina wondered whether her sister had told her that to spare her the horror of imagining their father’s last moments of sheer terror as he plummeted to his death.

And how had he been coerced to write it? Carmen had shared her theory that someone must have threatened the only thing he cared about more than life itself—his daughters.

Who the hell was the killer?

Carmen said Jake Heron and a friend had discovered that it was a professional hit man. What had he looked like? Was his voice high or low? Did he feel any remorse?