Page 7 of By the Time You Read This

The worst thing was that Raisa knew the answer to her own question.

Isabel’s main priority wasn’t that her murder would be solved; it was that she once again could make Raisa dance to her tune. There was no way for Raisa to ignore this note, and she was almost certain there would be more coming.

Raisa’s palm connected with a lamp she’d bought at Goodwill that first night in her new place when she realized she didn’t have any overhead lights. Her fingers curled around the neck, and she ripped the cord from the wall as she threw the thing against the fireplace.

Shards of glass sank into carpet that should have been replaced two decades ago.

Breathing hard, she stared at the aftermath of her uncharacteristic rage and flushed hot with shame.

Raisa wasn’t a person who threw lamps. She wasn’t that person—except when it came to Isabel. Her sister had always managed to bring out the worst in her.

To get herself back under control, she returned her attention to the letter on the desk.

A quick Google Map search of the address showed that it was a residence in some harbor town on the peninsula, looking like a dime a dozen in that stretch of the state.

Maybe it was some complicated code instead of straightforward coordinates, but Raisa didn’t think so. She would need to know the key to break any cipher Isabel had sent, and this wasn’t set up like one.

Isabel wasn’t the type for a parlor trick like invisible ink, either. She had wanted to be thought of as clever, using wordplay and manipulation, not through doing something ten-year-olds experimented with in kits bought at Target.

What it might be was the piece of a larger puzzle, the first of many messages Raisa would get over the next several days.

Or maybe . . .

Delaney.

The middle sister, as the press had dubbed her.

Whereas Raisa hadn’t known until recently that she was the survivor of a family massacre when she was a baby, Delaney—who had been twelve at the time—always had. Delaney had spent most of the twenty-five years that followed the killings searching for Isabel, all the while knowing that she was out there racking up more victims.

Delaney had sworn that she’d been on a mission to stop Isabel, but she had not once contacted the police about their sister’s long killing career.

It didn’t matter how Raisa viewed the situation anyway. It mattered what Isabel thought. And Isabel had loved Delaney most, whatever her version of love was.

If Raisa had received a letter, surely Delaney had as well?

As Raisa reached for her phone, a part of her rebelled.

She was doing exactly what Isabel wanted, she was sure of it. Why else send such a cryptic message?

But wasn’t that the genius of her sister?

Even if you knew you were caught in a riptide, there was nothing to do about it but swim toward the ocean.

Delaney didn’t answer her phone.

Raisa tried twice and then sent a text.

She wasn’t surprised that her sister hadn’t picked up. She didn’t even know where Delaney lived. She could be in Bali, actually enjoying the freedom she’d so dubiously preserved, and Raisa wasn’t sure she’d blame her. For that, at least.

When the knock on her door came a second after she gave up on contacting Delaney, Raisa knew it was Kilkenny without even having to look.

He stood on the little stoop, dressed as casually as he would ever get in pressed, tailored jeans and a cashmere sweater. His salt-and-pepper hair was styled perfectly, pushed back away from his face so that his eyes and cheekbones got the spotlight they deserved. Other people would certainly deem him handsome; Raisa just found his face utterly dear at the moment.

They weren’t big on hugging—that wasn’t their relationship. But when he held out his arms, she fell into them gladly, letting him take her weight for a moment.

“You didn’t have to come,” she muttered into his shoulder.

He pinched her arm. “Right. Like you didn’t have to go to Texas for me.”

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