Page 77 of The Grave Artist

Being an investigator.

Only her approach wasn’t working. She’d gone to all the trouble to put on an act for Carl Overton, to score the list of clients, and yet here she’d spent hours googling and DuckDuckGo-ing the names—and the names those searches had led to.

And more names after that.

Resulting in a big bowl of nothing.

Her hunch was that the list had answers, but she was trying to find them in all the wrong ways. Carmen had told her once: If what you’re doing isn’t working, try something else.

Good advice.

And she followed it now.

She sent a brief text.

Can I come over?

A reply came in less than thirty seconds.

Working late but yeah, sure, good.

Selina had to smile.

Throwing the laptop and list, and a copy of the suicide note, into a backpack, she locked up and hurried down to the parking lot.

Energized by her mission, she sped out onto the streets a little faster than she needed to. Soon she was cruising north toward Riverside County.

Thinking of the list put her in mind of her father. And she gripped the wheel uneasily, reflecting with some shame that she’d been such a hard-ass when it came to Roberto—and to Carmen. Recently Selina hadn’t even been willing to attend a small memorial gathering for him on the anniversary of his death. She’d been filled with righteous anger at what she’d perceived as his abandonment.

Now she knew that not only had he never forsaken his daughters—he’d likely sacrificed his life to save theirs.

The enormity of her guilt nearly overwhelmed her. She had believed the worst of him, when he was not only blameless, but deserving of her utmost honor and respect.

Honor.

That was how she would honor him. She would find the person or persons responsible and bring them to justice.

A car slowed in front of her and, her focus divided, she had to brake quickly.

It was then that she noticed the lights of a car behind her doing the same. Hardly suspicious. Except that most other vehicles were changing lanes to speed around her. This vehicle—she couldn’t see what it was—kept up the slow pace, then accelerated when she did.

Was he following?

No.

Was she sure?

Yes.

Pretty much.

Then those headlights were lost amid all the others on the inundated byways of Los Angeles. Locals called it Carmageddon.

Soon she was through the mountains and pulling up in front of a trim ranch house in a trim yard, located in a trim suburb. Selina leaned toward the funky and this was a very un-her kind of place.

Still, she found it immensely comforting, especially after her day playing amateur cop—and confronting painful memories of her father’s death.

Walking to the front door, she slipped a key from her purse and opened it, then stepped inside and hit the five-digit alarm code.