Page 90 of Little Shattered Dreams

“Open your desk drawers,” I said.

“Why?”

“Open them.”

“There's nothing to see.”

“Then you won't mind showing me.”

“What are you getting at, Georgiana? Are you feeling all right?”

“Better than ever. I bet you’re not, though.”

“Whatever it is you feel you need to say, why not just say it? Let’s skip right to the heart of it, shall we?”

“It’s not what I need to say to you. It’s what you need to say to me. Looks like you’re getting ready to leave. Why?”

She shrugged. “I figured since it was so quiet here, I’d head home. No sense sticking around when there aren’t any guests left who need anything from me for the remainder of the day. I’ve called a caterer to bring dinner tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said.

“Who are you to tell me where I can and cannot go?”

“I’m the person you hired. Remember? And hey, here's a question. The first few times I was in your office, you had a picture on your shelf of two young girls, arm in arm. It’s not there now. Where is it?”

Grace swished a hand through the air. “It fell off the shelf and the glass shattered. I haven’t had the chance to replace it with everything going on around here.”

“But it didn't shatter. Did it? After our conversation this morning, you were worried I’d figure out who the two girls in the photo are. After all, I admitted I knew Quinn’s secret. When I first looked at the photo, it was obvious it was dated. I assumed the girls may have been you and your sister when you were younger. I’ve just been through a handful of files Hunter dropped off. They include details on your history. You don’t have a sister. Who’s the girl in the photo, Grace?”

“An old childhood friend.”

“An old childhood friend who killed herself, isn’t that right?”

She glared at me.

I glared back.

She huffed a sigh. “You’re right, she's dead. I wouldn’t call cancerkilling herself. She had no control over it.”

“Cut the crap, Grace. She didn't die of cancer. She died of a broken heart.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about.”

“Sure, you do. I'll bet the girl in that photo is Lori Parker, mother of Lucas Parker, the boy who was struck by a car by a woman who used to go by the name of Brynn. You must have spent years looking for her. When did you find her?”

“I don’t know anyone named Brynn.”

“Oh, but you do. What you didn’t know was that she’d changed her name all those years ago. At some point you figured it out though, didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “And here I thought you were this amazing detective. It would appear you have no one to blame for the murders, so you’re blaming me. Why is that? Is it a self-esteem thing? You can’t go home without solving it, can you? What I’d like to know is what’s really going on. Talk to me.”

I was a few seconds away from slapping the woman across her condescending face. She needed to be extracted from her invisible throne, and I knew just how to do it.

“I get a lot of things wrong,” I said. “Sometimes I even accuse the wrong person when I’m working a case. But there’s one thing I never get wrong—the final clue, the one that ties it all together.”

“And what clue would that be?”

“It was the suicide note. Did you read it after you had Clara write it, or did you assume she’d written it just as you’d asked her to do? On second thought, I’m not looking for an answer. There was one thing in the note. One thing she placed just so, hoping one day she’d be vindicated of her confession of murder. Guess what day today is, Grace?”

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