Page 145 of Sixth Sin

Isla snorts. “Tess has lots of theories.”

I’m sure she does. However, theory and truth are almost always mutually exclusive. Both can hide behind pretty words and persuasive rhetoric, but putting a dress on a dragon doesn’t stop it from breathing fire. It just disguises the flame until it’s too late.

Tess offers a brittle smile. “Do I believe she shot her mother? Absolutely. Do I believe she had a breakdown and killed Greg Rosten? Yes. Do I believe she killed Violet DeLuca?” Rolling her eyes toward the sky, she flips her palm up and shrugs. “Indirectly.”

Plastic crinkles as my hands clench around my water bottle. “I’m sorry?”

“Alexandra Romanov sealed that girl’s fate the minute she allowed her inside the inner circle. That place…” Her eyes shift toward the estate again. “The evil is beautiful. It sucks you in, but once you walk inside, you don’t walk out.”

Her razor-sharp assessment slithers across my shoulders, dragging a rough tongue against my neck.

“And Dominic McCallum?” the man interjects, waves of disdain and condescension vibrating off him.

And there it is again. The wind at my back. The whisper in my ear.

“Alexandra claimed responsibility, but his mind games pushed her over the edge.” The corner of Tess’s red painted lip tips up. “The man got paid to deliver her to a rapist’s doorstep. Not exactly what I’d call a knight in shining armor.”

She pauses as the tour guide makes her way toward the back of the bus and turns a half circle right in front of us. Gesturing wildly toward another home, she launches into another speech about a couple who killed themselves in a dual suicide pact. Her close proximity forces every eye on us, so the three of us sit quietly. Finally, the guide tosses a disapproving glare our way before walking back to the front of the bus, turning everyone’s attention the other direction as she goes.

Immediately, we draw together again, and Tess sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. “The story has a lot of bloodstains, but it all comes back to one simple truth.”

“Which is?”

“Alexandra Romanov is one missing person who should’ve stayed that way.”

I couldn’t agree more.

I admit, this has been a surprisingly entertaining trip. I’m buzzing with electricity after a chance meeting with these two women. Tess and Isla livened up what I expected to be a somber celebrity bus tour in the burning California heat.

I open my mouth to pump them for more dirt when the man speaks up again. “So, you really think she killed him?”

Tess shifts a smug look toward him. “You really think she didn’t?”

They exchange heated stares, and then he slowly uncrosses his arms, his hands settling on his lap. “I suppose anything can happen in Hollywood.”

This time, the wind doesn’t whisper. It roars. Every hard consonant batters my back as the familiar rumble of his voice drives a dagger deep in my chest. Even though I’ve balanced on my toes for twelve months. Even though the only way to live on a ledge is never to breathe. I inhale slowly and lower my eyes to the man’s lap.

To where an inked tattoo spans the top of his right hand.

I’m in a daze as Tess swings her gaze toward me. “What do you think?” Her intense stare is unrelenting as she tilts her head. There’s something jagged in her eyes I don’t like. It’s as if she’s spent all day putting together a jigsaw puzzle only to realize the main piece was missing. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

I open my mouth to respond, only to snap it closed as the bus lurches to a stop. Every eye shifts toward the front as the tour guide claps her hands together, her microphone crackling as she announces the end of the tour.

Gathering my purse and empty water bottle, I stand and nod toward Tess and Isla. “It was nice to meet you both.” Before they can offer a rebuttal, I push my way through the thickening crowd and rush toward the street, the last hour replaying in my head on a frantic loop.

After running across the parking lot and unlocking my car, I’m about to open the door when I hear footsteps behind me.

“They have no clue, do they?”

I freeze as the voice I haven’t heard in over a year slithers over my spine. The deep cadence is so familiar, I can’t believe I didn’t hear it before now. I suppose on some level I expected him to find me someday and demand answers. If not for anything but closure.

I square my shoulders, slipping back into an all too familiar skin. “About what?”

“That they just had a conversation with a dead woman.”

My keys dig into the palm of my hand as I stare at our reflections in the driver’s side window. The last year hasn’t been kind to either of us. Although my eyes are hidden behind huge, dark sunglasses, there’s no masking the two new lines that frame my mouth like parenthesis.

It’s almost poetic, if you think about it. Some call them laugh lines. I think God put them there as anecdotal tattoos. Permanent lip cuffs. My own Scarlet Letter ensuring everything that crosses them is nothing more than a historical footnote. A conversational “where were you” moment. Like the assassination of JFK or the Challenger Explosion or 9/11.

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