It Started That Night Read online

“Ash, I wish you’d consider wearing your hair down. It’s so beautiful—”

  The smile on Ashley’s face collapsed. She glared at Ivy. “For the tenth time, Mom, we all agreed to wear our hair up.” She gestured to her friends, who shuffled their high-heeled feet, and their similar hairstyles. “Besides, Aunt Lily spent a lot of time styling it for me.” Ashley turned to Lily. “And don’t forget you said you’d come over tomorrow, Aunt Lily. I want to spend more time with you!”

  Ivy glared at her. Yikes. She looked ready to throw Lily out on the street, but she gritted her teeth and turned to her daughter. “Of course your friends look beautiful, but you have particularly—”

  Aaron’s face reflected Lily’s horror. Ashley’s face turned red. “Jeez, Mom, now you’re insulting my friends?”

  “No,” Ivy exclaimed. “I’m just saying, why hide what’s obviously one of your best features?”

  “Oh, so my hair is my best feature. Not my face. Great. Thanks, Mom.” Ashley huffed out the front door and her friends dutifully trailed after her.

  “Ashley, wait—” Ivy placed her hands on her hips and turned to Aaron. “I didn’t mean to insult her friends. I was trying to give her a compliment.”

  Aaron nodded. “I—uh, I’ll drop them off and pick them up at 10:30 like we planned.” He shut the door behind him.

  An awkward silence immediately filled the room. As Ivy stared at the door, she should have been the epitome of calm beauty—perfectly curled blonde hair, which she’d inherited from their father, pressed jeans and ivory sweater, flawless makeup. But the tension vibrating through her body belied the image.

  “Ivy—” Lily began.

  “I think I’ll watch a movie in my bedroom.”

  Lily’s heart fell. The implication in Ivy’s words was unmistakable. She wanted Lily to leave. With a sigh of defeat, Lily turned and stared out into the backyard, with its small, sparsely planted garden and dollhouse-like detached garage.

  “Ivy, why do you…?” She turned back to face her sister, shocked to see she was alone. Striding into the hallway, she saw Ivy close her bedroom door and heard the television come on.

  Anger replaced Lily’s sadness. She marched to her sister’s door and knocked. Ivy opened the door and stared at her. Lily had to tilt her head to look up at her sister, and once more she realized they couldn’t look more different. Be more different.

  “Didn’t Ashley look beautiful when she left?”

  Surprised that Ivy had actually started the conversation, Lily cautiously said, “Yes.”

  “She looked so much like Mom. Like you.” Her mouth twisted and she shook her head. “Did you finish that painting for that little girl? The one for Fiona?”

  Ivy knew about Fiona? About Fiona’s painting? That meant she’d actually been listening to what Lily said at dinner. “Y-yes,” Lily managed to say. “She found a foster home and I wanted to give her something to warm up her room.”

  “That’s nice. You—you’re really talented, Lily. I wish I had a gift like yours.”

  This time, Lily couldn’t disguise her shock.

  Ivy laughed. “I know, I know. I’m the bitchy sister. Why would I compliment you?” She bit her lip. “But I mean it.”

  “Thank you,” Lily whispered. The familiar silence threatened to overtake them, so Lily forced herself to break it. “I—I’ve wanted to talk to you.”

  “I know,” Ivy said solemnly. “But I don’t want to talk heavy with you, Lily. And that’s what it’d be, right?”

  “But why does it have to be heavy? What happened after Mom died? Why have you been so angry with me?”

  Shrugging, Ivy looked away. “I wasn’t. I’m not. I guess, I just—I just don’t want to think about it. Not anymore. I have Ashley.”

  I have my own family, she meant. One that doesn’t include you. Lily nodded to herself. “And you have Aaron—”

  A shadow crossed Ivy’s face, but she took a deep breath and flashed a weak smile. “Sure. Hey, why don’t we watch that movie together—”

  Reaching out, Lily placed her hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “Is everything okay with you and Aaron?”

  Ivy pulled away, tension once more pinching her features. “Mind your own business, Lily.”

  “I care about you. I want you to be happy. If there’s something I can do to help—”

  “You want to help? Stop interfering with my personal relationships. God, it’s bad enough that Ashley wants to spend more time with you than me—” Ivy paused when Lily flinched. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, Lily.”

  Lily raised her chin. “Fine. I’ll just leave you alone—”

  “Lily.”

  Lily paused.

  “I don’t want to lose her,” she whispered softly. So softly Lily barely heard her. “Ashley and I have been fighting constantly.”

  Lily stepped closer. “About—about what?”

  “About boys. About her wanting to wear makeup. She wants to grow up so fast. And I want her to stay my little girl a little longer. Is that so bad?”

  Lily shook her head. “No, there’s nothing wrong with that. You and Aaron—”

  A soft, bitter laugh shot out of Ivy’s throat, freezing Lily in her tracks. “Aaron’s never here. When he’s not working, he’s… God, I don’t know.” She covered her face with her hands. When she lifted them, she had tears in her eyes. “I think he’s having an affair.”

  Automatically, Lily shook her head again. Ivy and Aaron had been together since high school. Since before their mother had died. Ivy had gotten pregnant shortly after that and Aaron had stood by Ivy through everything. She’d never doubted his love for her sister.

  “He works late almost every night, Lily. Even if he comes home on time, he leaves after dinner. You’ve seen that.”

  “He’s working on a big case. Trying to make partner.”

  Ivy just shrugged.

  “Do you want me to call right now? Would that make you feel better?”

  “No. No, you’re right. I’m sure he’s there. And he’ll pick up Ashley. He’s very responsible. I just…sometimes I wish we were more connected. You know?”

  Lily thought of her empty bed at home. Her empty house. Reaching out, she placed a tentative hand on her sister’s arm. “I know. And it’s there. You, Aaron and Ashley. You’re a family. You’ll get through this, Ivy.”

  Ivy pulled back and Lily’s hand slipped away. That’s twice, she noted sadly.

  Then Ivy reached out and hugged her. “I…I love you, Lily.”

  Stunned, Lily hugged her back. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  “I’m going to wait for Ashley. Maybe she’ll want to talk about the dance.” At the door, Ivy looked back. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  “Yes. Later.”

  When Ivy shut the door, joy rushed through Lily’s blood like an overdose of oxygen, making her feel dizzy. She struggled to temper the feeling. She couldn’t forget Ivy’s behavior reflected her desperation.

  On autopilot, Lily gathered up her stuff and walked to her car out front. She froze when she saw a man getting out of his own vehicle, parked just behind hers.

  John.

  * * *

  O-kay, John thought.

  So she couldn’t look more unhappy to see you.

  Can you really blame her?

  Still, he tried. He waved. “Hi, small fry. Imagine running into you here.”

  She strode toward him, eyes narrow, looking exactly like she did when she was in “Ba-Lily mode.” Lily in battle mode. He’d made up the term a long time ago to tease her about how ferocious she could get. He obviously refrained from using the nickname.

  “Are you serious?” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m doing exactly what you think I am. I wanted to talk to Ivy and Aaron. Since you’re not cooperating, I figured they might.” Plus, he’d remembered something critical that had been bugging him. Ivy and Aaron had attended his party on that night so long ago. And he couldn’t remember se
eing them after Tina’s little visit. Where had they disappeared to? He couldn’t imagine they’d had anything to do with her murder, but he’d never considered Doug Cantrell a viable suspect, either.

  She looked over her shoulder with a frown on her face, clearly distressed at the idea of him talking to them. “Look, Aaron’s not here and Ivy just went to bed. She’s—she’s been having a tough time with her daughter and I—I really don’t want you to disturb her. Please.”

  He could tell that “please” had cost her. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell you what. I’ll postpone my interview for a day or two.”

  Relief instantly washed over her face, then disappeared with his next words.

  “But you have to do something for me.”

  She shook her head. “I—I don’t want to talk about that night—”

  “I know. Neither do I. Not right now.”

  She tilted her head inquisitively. Cautiously. “Then what?”

  Yeah, what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to talk to her for a little while. Not fight with her. Not scare her. Just enjoy being with her the way he had before everything had gone to hell. “Your art,” he said desperately, saying the first thing that popped into his head.

  “My art,” she echoed.

  “I saw some of your work at the hospital. But I didn’t see any paintings. You still paint, don’t you? Can—can I see something of yours?”

  She looked at him as if he was crazy and truthfully he felt like it. But her art had been a way for her to open up to him back then. Maybe—

  “It’s seven at night and you want to see one of my paintings,” she said slowly.

  He shrugged. “I want more than that, Lily. I’m asking for what I think you can give me right now. One painting. Show me something you’ve painted recently, and I’ll wait to talk to Ivy. I mean, I drove all this way, so…” He used a wheedling tone, clearly teasing, and to his surprise she actually smiled before rolling her eyes.

  “Fine. Follow me home. I’ll show you one painting and then you’ll leave. Promise?”

  “I promise,” he said. She simply looked at him and he wondered if she doubted him. But then she turned away.

  After a short ten-minute drive, she pulled into her driveway and stood next to the open garage door. He was hoping she would invite him inside, but instead she pointed to a large canvas already leaning against the wall.

  “I just painted that. For Fiona, the little girl you met at the hospital. She’s not just shy. She doesn’t talk. But she’s been placed with a new foster family and I wanted her to have something—”

  She pressed her lips together as if she realized she was saying too much. He wanted her to keep talking. To keep listening to her voice. But Lily had trusted him enough to show him this. Trusted him enough to believe his promise. And he wasn’t going to do anything to damage that small bit of trust.

  He studied the painting for several seconds.

  The painting was a hazy abstract of gold, bronze and cranberry, but he saw immediately the kitten-shapes she’d weaved into seemingly casual swirls of color. It was a soft, sweet painting for a soft, sweet girl. A gift to inspire peace and hope. Something he knew Lily hadn’t felt for a long time.

  “Will they get her another kitten, you think?”

  Again, she smiled before she caught herself. “I don’t doubt it. The family seems very loving. And you saw for yourself how she makes people melt.”

  Just like another girl I used to know, he thought. He didn’t say it. He caught Lily’s gaze, however, and he could tell she knew what he was thinking. His arms ached to reach out to her. To hold her.

  But he’d made her a promise.

  So he simply nodded. “Thank you for sharing this with me, small fry. She’s lucky to have you. And so is your family.”

  With that, he left.

  But he didn’t leave behind the memory of Lily’s smile. That he took with him, replaying the expression in his mind over and over again, and even in his dreams.

  * * *

  Lily tried watching a movie after John left but she was too restless to sit still.

  Without consciously wanting to, she walked out to the garage to stare at Fiona’s painting again. The more she looked at it, the less satisfied she was with the top right corner. It needed a little more color, she thought. But even as she took out her paint supplies, she knew she was just trying to distract herself.

  John.

  She kept thinking of him and the way he’d teased her. The way his eyes had glowed with appreciation as he’d looked at the painting she’d made for Fiona. For a moment, she’d actually forgotten what he was trying to do. Why he’d come back into her life. Maybe it had simply been a result of the talk she’d had with Ivy, but she’d felt almost happy while they’d been standing in her garage. Happy enough to want to apologize for the awful things she’d said to him when he’d come to her house. When he’d come to the hospital.

  She kept reminding herself that the happiness was just an illusion.

  John would no doubt go back to Ivy and Aaron’s house tomorrow.

  And Ivy…

  She added a trail of red to the canvas.

  Could Aaron really be cheating on her? He’d stuck by her through so much. The trial. College. Years of therapy.

  Death. Betrayal. Blood.

  Just like that, it happened.

  A jolt of pain stabbed above Lily’s left eye. Although it quickly subsided, an odd feeling kept her frozen.

  Something was watching her. Not something behind her, but in front of her. But the only thing in front of her was her canvas.

  Without knowing why, she felt the sudden urge to destroy it. To slash at the canvas with heavy layers of dark acrylic paint and plaster until distinct textural shapes formed on top. To dip her hands in oil paint and smear it around and around the painting’s surface until nothing was left of softness, or whimsy, or girlish innocence.

  Enormous pressure exploded behind her eyes, making her moan. The canvas undulated, suddenly appearing ripped and torn. Bright streaks of red paint—or was it blood?—ran from top to bottom, dripping off the edge to pool on the hardwood floor.

  Her brush and palette dropped from her nerveless fingers.

  She whirled around at the clatter, heart beating fast, every cell in her body shouting for survival. Whimpering, she backed up, knocking against the canvas with her elbow. She imagined she felt hard fingers wrapping around her arms.

  She whirled again.

  “No,” she moaned. “Please, no.”

  The blood was still there.

  Traveling down. Melding into the paint Lily herself had applied. Blurring with the red strokes she’d intended to be the fluttering stream of a cat’s toy ribbon. But it now resembled a body.

  A woman’s body, bleeding and dying.

  Her mother.

  Pain brought Lily to her knees as memories overwhelmed her.

  Her own face, plucked and painted because she’d wanted to look older for when she saw John. Her mother’s face as they’d argued. The clatter of her heels as she’d run away from her mother, when really what she should have done was run to her and never let go.

  Chapter 7

  At 11:00 p.m., John sat in the Sac PD break room, waiting for Officer Max Pendelton to come off shift. Pendelton had been one of the first officers to respond to the Tina Cantrell murder scene. He’d also been there when Lily had slapped John and John doubted that was something he’d forget, even years later. Sure enough, the first thing the man said when he walked in the room was, “I know you. You came to the scene the night of the Cantrell murder. You’re the daughter’s friend. The one she slapped.”

  The officer hadn’t aged well. They were only a few years apart, but time had etched his face with deep grooves. He looked twenty years older. “That’s right. You know why I’m here?”

  “Yeah. About the Cantrell case. You were there, and you’re investigating the case now? Not kosher.”

&nbs
p; Annoyed, John frowned. “I’m not investigating the Cantrell case, per se. As I told your supervisor, I’m working a series of murders in El Dorado County. I just need to rule out that the perp is the same person who killed Tina Cantrell. You want to call the A.G. handling the Cantrell appeal?”

  Walking over to a coffeepot, Pendelton poured himself a cup, and added five spoonsful of sugar then stirred it vigorously. “I remember the case like it was yesterday. My first murder scene.” Motioning to the pot, he offered some to John.

  “No, thanks. I’ve already had one.”

  Pendelton blew in his cup, gingerly took a sip, then grimaced. “Even with a boatload of sugar this coffee is crap.” He sat down across from John. “I take it you’ve seen the crime-scene photos?”

  “The photos. The videotape of the scene. The witness statements. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Shoot.”

  John weighed his words carefully, not wanting to put Pendelton on the defensive. “When you got there, who was the first person you spoke with?”

  “The father. He was the only one lucid enough to give a statement.”

  “What about his daughter?”

  “You saw her, man. She was in shock. Didn’t say one word to me or my partner.”

  “Would you say the father was distraught?”

  “His wife had just been stabbed to death. Yeah, I’d say he was distraught.”

  “Ex-wife,” John corrected. “But you said he was lucid. What was his overall demeanor? To Lily in particular?”

  “I didn’t talk to him directly. My partner did. But he seemed concerned. Paternal. In control. Trying to be calm so she’d be calm. I concentrated on the girl.” His eyes shifted away momentarily. “I…made a mistake. I should’ve led her away from the house. So much blood—all from that one tiny woman.” Pendelton’s face stiffened in memory. “It was my first murder scene, you know. Still the worst, in my experience.”

  “Was there anything that struck you about the crime scene? The body?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “I wondered why the girl’s hair seemed wet, but the father said it always took a long time to dry.”

  John straightened. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t remember Lily’s hair being wet but he hadn’t exactly been calm and objective.