Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(77)

I draw her next, my hand stuttering over the grim set of her mouth, the harsh lines at the corners of her eyes. I can’t help myself; I shiver.

“What’s her name?” Tessa asks me.

“Madame.”

“Does everyone call her that?”

“Anything else is a sign of disrespect. We must respect.” I pause. “She wants us to love her. Maybe some part of her even wishes we actually were her daughters, that we are one big happy family. But if we don’t love her, she will settle for us fearing her instead.”

“Is it her house?”

“Been in the family for generations. We’re lucky she lets us live here.”

“Like you’re lucky for the clothes on your back, the food on the table?” Tessa asks sharply.

“Without her, we would have nothing,” I say simply. “Without her, we would be nothing.”

I move on to the dining table. A long rectangle, capable of hosting a party of sixteen. An elaborate crystal chandelier dangles in the middle, while a faded crimson floral print adorns the walls.

“Who cooks, who cleans?” Tessa is asking.

“She takes care of us; we take care of her.”

“And at night, when the . . . guests arrive.”

“Dinner parties. She’s the hostess. We’re her daughters. We must be considerate of the guests. Engage them in conversation, entertain their every need.”

I leave the dining room. The wraparound front porch, where we could sit as a reward for good behavior. The vaulted foyer, where she would stand to greet every new arrival. The tower bedroom, with the rose-painted mural. Where it all began. Where it all ended.

Where Vero and I still sit and drink a cup of tea.

One room left. I know it well; the twin beds shoved together, the narrow window on the wall. Where Chelsea and Vero spent their last years, whispering stories together in the dark.

Small, cloistered, should be the easiest to sketch. And yet my hand skips over it time and again.

Vero braiding my hair, her skin falling off in chunks.

Vero dancing across that awful frayed blue rug.

My hand is shaking. I can’t get the tip of the pencil down on the paper. I try to focus, will my own fingers into action. My arm shakes harder.

I’m aware of Tessa watching me, which only makes it worse.

“Nicky,” she asks quietly, “was it your or Thomas’s idea to return to New Hampshire?”

I don’t answer her question. I’m too busy staring at my trembling hand. Her cell phone rings. Tessa checks the display, then excuses herself, taking the phone and stepping out of the room into the hall.

Alone I think I can do this. Draw the rug. Just draw the rug.

But I can’t.

When my hand moves again, it doesn’t draw the room. It draws a face. One as familiar to me as my own. With deep, dark eyes. Laugh lines crinkling the corners. Dark hair, tousled around his forehead.

Except this Thomas is younger than my own. With fewer lines and thicker hair. His jaw is not fully fleshed out, his face still babyish around the edges. A teenager, full of promise but not yet grown into himself.

And he’s not smiling at me kindly. Or flirting with his gaze. Or winking at me slyly.

My fingers move again. Mud splattered across his brow. The smell of wet-churned earth, the feel of the grave. Or maybe it’s soot, smeared across his cheek. The smell of smoke, the feel of the flames.

I don’t know this Thomas. The look on his face. So grim, so horrible.

The things he has done, I think, automatically. The things he’s about to do next . . .

I drop my pencil. Grab the sheet of paper. Quick, before I can think twice, I rip it from the pad.

I can hear Tessa’s voice, still talking on her phone in the hall. As I cross to the hotel bed, lift the mattress and shove the sketch beneath it, disappearing it from sight.

My heart is still beating wildly. I can barely sit. My head throbs. Thomas, young Thomas, clearly not from New Orleans.

Vero is laughing in the back of my mind. Or maybe she’s taunting. “How does someone so smart get to be so stupid?”

Then: “Run, baby, run.”

But I can’t run. There’s no place for me to go. Only worse things for me to remember. Fresh dangers for me to face.

I need to pull myself together. The scent of grass. Trying to draw it in, find my center again. But it’s not happening.

Vero is whirling around in my mind. Dancing across that awful rug as hair and flesh fly off her bones.

I’m on the edge, I realize. The furthest I’ve ever gotten in my memories. Maybe even now standing right outside the shuttered-up box. All I have to do is lean forward, remove the sign that says “Keep Out,” then tug hard on the lid . . .

The door opens. Tessa walks into the room. The look on her face is stern and immediately foreboding. “That was Wyatt. We need to return to the sheriff’s office. They’ve recovered Thomas’s vehicle. Nicky, you have some serious explaining to do.”





Chapter 28




WYATT TOOK HIS time. For too long things had been moving too fast. He’d been playing catch-up. His officers had been in reaction mode. Now, with less than twelve hours to learn everything he needed to know from one woman regarding two crimes, he was slowing things down. Getting his ducks in a row.