The Silent Sister(77)

“Can I help you?” she heard Grady ask.

“Maybe,” a deep male voice answered. Something about the voice made her still her hands on the records to listen. “I’m a private investigator,” he said. “My name’s Arthur Jones and I’m trying to find this girl.”

She lowered her hands from the box to her lap. Be calm, she told herself. Ocean Beach was full of runaways. People were always searching for their missing kids in this town.

“This is an old picture,” the man said. “She’d be twenty-three now. She’s probably changed her looks. Maybe wears a wig or dyed her hair.”

She pressed her fist to her mouth, waiting. For a really long moment, no one said a word. “Looks like some kind of promotional shot,” Grady said finally.

“Right. She’s a violinist, as you can see. She was one of those prodigies.”

She shut her eyes. She could guess which photo he was showing Grady—the one they’d splashed all over the news after Steven’s death.

Six years, she thought. For six years, she’d been safe. She’d believed it could last forever.

“She doesn’t look familiar,” Grady said, and she let out her breath.

“No?” Arthur Jones said. “I showed this to someone on the street out there and he thought he saw a girl who looked like her working in here.”

“Bunch of space cadets out on the street.” Grady sounded annoyed.

“Let me see it,” Charlie said.

“Well, she’ll look different now,” Arthur Jones said. “Older, like I said, and try to picture her with a different hair color or maybe cut short.”

“Pretty girl,” Charlie said. “Why’re you looking for her?”

“She’s wanted for murder,” the man said, just like that. She heard Grady laugh.

“That’s funny?” the man asked.

“Just, she doesn’t look like much of a murderer,” Grady said. “What did she do? Hit someone over the head with her violin?”

“No, she shot a guy in the head with a .357 Magnum.”

Silence.

“Damn,” Charlie said after a moment. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“So, you’re just going around to all the stores, showing that picture?” Grady asked.

“We know she’s a musician and we’re pretty sure she’s in San Diego,” Arthur Jones said, “so checking music stores makes sense, don’t you think?”

How did they know she was in San Diego? How did they know she hadn’t killed herself in 1990, for that matter? She thought of those letters she’d exchanged with her father the month before. Had they been a terrible mistake?

“Well, I don’t think she’s been in here,” Grady said.

“I know everyone in Ocean Beach and I’ve never seen anyone who looks like her,” Charlie added. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Anyone else here I can show her picture to?” the man asked.

“No,” Grady said quickly. “Slow day.”

“All right, then. Thanks for your time.”

She heard the jingle of the door, but didn’t move. Should she go out the back door to the alley? And then what would she do?

Slowly, she slid off the stool on legs that threatened to give out on her and walked into the shop. The two of them stood there like statues, staring at her, Charlie with an LP in his hands, Grady behind the counter.

“You’re white as a ghost,” Grady said, and Charlie held up his free hand.

“Just tell me you didn’t do it,” he said.

She swallowed, her throat dry as a piece of toast. “I didn’t do it.” What else could she say?

“That’s good enough for me,” Charlie said.

“How long till it occurs to him to check the music department at State?” Grady asked, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

“I have to leave,” she said. “I have to leave Ocean Beach.”

“Go to Celia,” Charlie said. “But tell Ingrid you’re going someplace else.”

She nodded.

Grady opened the cash drawer, counted out five twenties and handed them to her. “We’ll miss you,” he said, then added, “We love you, Jade. Take care.”

* * *

She cleaned out her cottage quickly. She had little to pack and less that she cared about, but she thought she’d better take everything. Her fingerprints were all over the place! She hoped that private investigator never spoke to anyone who would lead him to Ingrid and this cottage. If he was only looking at music shops she’d be safe, but if he took that photograph to the market, someone there was sure to recognize her. And as Grady said, the music department at State … oh, God. How could this be happening?

It took her four trips to carry everything she owned out to her car. She had the one suitcase she’d arrived with. Her textbooks, which she imagined she’d never need again but didn’t want to leave behind in her room. Her laptop computer. The violin and music and music stand. That was it. With every trip to her car, she scoured the neighborhood for Arthur Jones, wishing she’d gotten a look at him. She didn’t know who to fear.

Once the car was full, she found Ingrid hoeing in her small garden behind the shed.