Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Oh. Yeah, sure. She’s usually up past eleven watching those reality shows she loves.” He paused. “Argus never did call me back, but hopefully my mom’s spoken to him. Maybe a bug passed between the two of them and he’s laid up now.”
“Maybe. I’ll text you in just a bit.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
Sienna took the exit, followed the route she’d driven the week before, and pulled up in front of Mirabelle’s house. She shut off the engine, letting out a breath when she saw the light of a TV screen from within the house. She continued to stare at the large structure, her brows dipping. Maybe Mirabelle had fallen asleep in front of the TV, because other than the small flicker, something about the house felt strangely dark. No porch light was on, not even the smallest glow from a lamp within.
If Mirabelle was still sleeping, in front of the TV or otherwise, she obviously needed the rest. Sienna hesitated before ringing the bell, going back and forth between not waking her and offering assistance. But then she remembered Gavin’s persistence at her door and how much she’d needed his caretaking, whether she’d known it or not, and pressed her finger to the doorbell. What if Mirabelle’s bug has gotten worse? What if she’s feverish but doesn’t have any Tylenol? What if she’s dehydrated? What if she hasn’t eaten all day and just needs someone to heat something up for her?
What if simply helping her out of her TV chair and into bed means she doesn’t wake up with a painful kink in her back?
She waited a minute, pressing her ear to the door, but no sound came from within, not even the quiet sound of whatever TV show was on, and a wave of worry rolled over her. And when she tried the knob and it turned . . . opened . . . that worry increased.
“Mirabelle?” she called into the dark house. “Mirabelle, it’s me.” Her weapon was still in the holster at her waist, and out of habit, she put her hand on it as she reached inside, flicking on the hall light. She called her name again to no answer, inching forward.
She’s just at Argus’s house, left the TV on, and forgot to lock her door. Or she’s going to come out of her room, drowsy and disoriented from some cold medication, and you’re going to scare the bejesus out of her.
She leaned into the open doorway of the spacious living room, but there was no one in it, just the muted television playing an infomercial from QVC. She moved on, rounding the corner to the kitchen slowly before flicking on the overhead light. Everything was spick-and-span, and Sienna smelled that familiar lemon cleaner that always conjured memories of Mirabelle.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but she called her name again. When she peeked her head in the open bedroom doorway, the bed was empty. Frowning, she flicked on that light, too, but Mirabelle wasn’t there.
Sienna did a quick walk-through of each room, calling Mirabelle’s name, and then returned to the kitchen. Mirabelle was definitely not home. But she also wasn’t collapsed on a bathroom floor like Sienna had half feared.
Why did you fear that? Listen to your gut.
Was something off, or was it just this case, this guy, wreaking havoc on her mind, causing her to see games and clues and messages in every small thing?
But I mourned Mother. I mourned the absence of her potpourri, her homemade doughnuts, and the lemon-scented spray that made our house smell clean and fresh.
She pulled in a deep breath. That was what was still nagging at her mind. And yet she kept talking herself out of it because talking of a mother in relation to potpourri and lemon cleaner was like someone saying their mom liked to burn candles and save gift bags.
Every mother did that.
Well . . . not hers, but lots of them.
Those things were not particular to Mirabelle.
But they reminded you of her, didn’t they, Sienna? a small voice whispered.
How could Danny Boy possibly know that, though? There was simply no way.
She was lifting her phone to text Gavin and tell him she was leaving and that Mirabelle wasn’t home when she saw the pad of paper on the edge of the counter with Mirabelle’s handwriting.
She approached it, her brow furrowing as she looked down. “What the hell?” she muttered.
They were her notes, only . . . rewritten by Mirabelle.
Vanadium, Iodine, Oxygen, Lithium.
And then beneath that, she’d added to Sienna’s brainstorming with apparent E and T words from the periodic chart.
Europium?
Erbium?
Einsteinium?
Titanium?
Tantalum?
Thallium?
Tellurium?
Thulium?
VIOLET
Sienna stood there for several moments, trying to understand. Mirabelle had obviously seen the notes from the periodic table at her condo. That was why she’d rushed out of there looking peaked? And then she’d come home and rewritten them with her own additions. Why? Mirabelle had gotten the E right, even though there was no way she could have known about the company Harry Lockheed’s body was facing or the clues the killer had left that had led them to the same letter. And why did Mirabelle think the word would end up being Violet?