I clicked on the link, frowning slightly when it took me to a website that seemed to be an online writer’s community. There was no review on the screen. No, there was a list of online stories to choose from by an author named, Shadow.

Uncomfortable reading another person’s unpublished work, I was about to close the page down … but then a little something caught my eye. One of the stories was titled, “Kelsey Irons.” My heart jumped. It was just a little too close to ‘Kensey Lyons’ for my liking. Unease settled in my gut.

I was being ridiculous, I thought. Ridiculous. And just to prove it, I clicked on the story. And what I read next made the blood drain from my face.

It was like watching an upcoming train wreck—I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t turn away. I read each chapter. The further into the story I got, the more nauseous I felt. My heart was hammering in my chest, and my hands were shaking.

Done, I plonked the laptop on the sofa beside me. I only had four words.

What the everloving fuck?

CHAPTER THREE

After work the next day, I stopped by my mother’s house. Pulling up outside, I saw her crouched among the flower beds with a basket at her side. I knew it contained pruners, a trowel, a spade, and other gardening tools. A tree cast plenty of shade over her, protecting her from the sun. The simple sight was one I’d seen a lot growing up.

Originally, I’d thought she kept such good care of her garden because she found peace in it. Later, I’d come to realize it was more than that. Clear was so obsessive about her garden for the same reason that she was so particular in other ways—it was about control. She was even more of a neat freak than I was.

Rose bushes, flowering trees, decorative rocks, and peony bushes bordered her garden. There were several rows and patches of herbs and colorful flowers; my favorite had always been the snapdragons. The tire swing hanging from an oak branch should have looked out of place, but it didn’t.

On my part, our relationship was a little awkward and strained. How could it be anything close to smooth, given the life she’d created for us? But Clear still lived inside that self-protective bubble, where her world was perfect. In that world, no tension whatsoever existed between us.

Did I wish she’d face reality? No, because there had been a few times when her bubble had burst—like when she received abusive letters from the family members of Michael’s victims, forcing her to face the true extent of the pain he’d caused others. The result had been ugly. Tears. Pills. Vodka. It was just far easier to let Clear live with her fantasies.

As I walked up my mother’s gravel pathway, I was hit by the scents of flowers, spicy herbs, and rich soil. She looked up and beamed at me. With her guileless smile and soft voice, there was something very ethereal about her. “Hi, baby, how are you?”

I forced a smile. “Fine. You?”

“Great. I’d hug you, but I’ve got a lot of dirt on me.”

I sat on the sun-warmed, wooden porch step. In the distance, a radio played, and kids laughed. Here, there was only the soft ringing of the wind chimes, the rustling of leaves, and the sound of a spade thumping soil. “What are you planting?”

“Not planting. Fixing. Ruth Peterson’s damn dog dug up my flowers again,” she grumbled.

I felt my brow furrow. “Did you mention it to her?”

“She gave me that fake smile as she expressed her sympathy, saying her dear Fluffy would never do such a thing, and she wished me luck in finding the real culprit. She’s sixty years old and thinks she can’t do any wrong.” Clear took a deep breath. “So, what have you been up to today?”

“Grocery shopping. Then work.” And racking my brain, trying to figure out what was going on. Hell, it was bad enough that someone found out that Nina Bowen was a penname. The fact that they’d traced it back to me was even worse. But this person was using what they’d learned to fuck with me, and I had no idea why or who. “What about you?”

“Nothing much. After work, I was on the phone with your dad for a little while. And then I came out to fix this mess.”

“You going to see him Saturday?”

“Of course.”

I rubbed my thighs. “I was thinking of coming with you.” Because I had questions that Michael just might be able to answer. Considering I only visited him twice a year—near his birthday and Christmas, purely to appease Clear—you’d think that she’d be suspicious to hear I wanted to visit him. There was nothing but sheer delight on her face.

“Oh, he’d love that! He misses you so much. He always asks about you.”

My stomach churned at the idea of seeing Michael. Sitting opposite a person who’d murdered a bunch of women but insisted they loved you and considered you their child … it was a total mind-fuck. “Everything okay at work?”

“Great. Working at a library might not be anyone’s idea of a dream job, but I like it. Not just because I like books, but because it’s quiet. Peaceful.”

“Has anyone other than Ruth and her dog bothered you?” I asked, careful to keep my tone casual. It had occurred to me that the person fucking with me could also be playing games with Clear if this was somehow related to Michael.

Clear’s brow creased. “Are you talking about the Buchanans? You know they don’t pay much attention to me these days. Why? Have they been bothering you?”

“Not recently, no.” Unless the mysterious John Smith—I was guessing the name was fake—was a Buchanan. “I meant reporters, journalists, people like that.”

“Only some true crime writer who wants to interview me about your dad.”

“Noah Linton?”

“That’s the one. I told him I wasn’t interested in talking with him.” Clear took off the gardening gloves and stuffed them in her basket. “He bothering you?”

“No. He left me a voicemail, but that’s all.”

“Then why do you seem so uneasy?”

“I’m not uneasy. I was just checking.”

“Huh.” Unconvinced, Clear gave me a searching look, absentmindedly breezing her finger over a flower bloom. “Well, the only person I’ve had an issue with lately is Ruth, so you have no need to worry.” She winced as she stood and then gave her knee a brief rub. “So, are you staying for dinner?”

“Can’t. I told Sarah I’d help tidy her apartment.”

Clear snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Yeah, I was pretty sure I’d need it.

Standing in the middle of Sarah’s studio apartment half an hour later, I shook my head. Clothes were strewn around. Crumbs seemed to litter most surfaces. Dirty dishes and mugs were piled in the sink. Trash had spilled over the overflowing can and onto the floor. And the clutter … oh, God, the clutter.

If you looked beneath the mess—which was a challenge—you could see that the open space was kind of quirky. The furniture was as mismatched as my eyes, but it wasn’t shabby or grubby. In fact, the mash of colors and styles gave the place some personality.

Technically, the last thing I should want while my thoughts were scattered was to clean someone’s apartment, but cleaning helped me think. It also would be an outlet for the anger. And I’d welcome any distraction right then.

“So, where do we start?” asked Sarah.

“Firstly, you need to get rid of half of your stuff.”