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“Silas Renfrow didn’t die in that detention center, did he, Marcie?”
Attorney-client attorney-client attorney-client —
“I never — never knew for sure,” I manage. “I had my doubts.”
“Camille Striker,” he says.
“What — who?”
“You don’t know that name? Camille Striker?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Kyle looks me over, battling with himself, trying to decide whom to trust. “What did you think of that note left on your wall?”
“Note? What note?”
“The note on your foyer — someone broke into your home last Friday.”
“What?”I almost jump out of my seat. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know that? David got the call from the alarm company. He didn’t —” Kyle’s eyes rise, his expression changing. “He didn’t tell you.”
“No, he didn’t tell me. What happened at my house?”
He pulls out his phone. “Nothing was stolen. Nothing was broken. Truth be told, David couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.”
I don’t understand. I don’t understand what is happening—
“You said they left a note.”
“Yeah, they spray-painted a note on your foyer wall.” Kyle holds up his phone. “One of the officers snapped a picture.” He hands me his phone.
There it is, in red spray paint across the wall of my foyer, just below the Picasso print:
I know who you are
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
“You really didn’t — you didn’t know,” says Kyle.
“I have to go. I have to go right now.” I put the car in gear and drive to the school.
FIFTY-FOUR
GRACE AND LINCOLN BARK at each other in the back seat, something about the PlayStation. Ordinarily, I’d be on them about getting along, about being half as nice to each other as they are to every other person in the world, but right now I feel about as stable as a jug of nitroglycerin next to an open flame.
I pull into the garage and kill the engine. “Wait here,” I say. “Wait in the car a minute.”
“Why do we have to wait —”
“BecauseI told you to wait in the car,Grace Catherine.” I slam the door.
I try to act composed, not race like a madwoman into the house from the garage. It isn’t easy. Once inside, I rush to the front of the house, the foyer, and mentally prepare myself as I turn to look at the wall.
It’s just a plain white wall, blank except for the Picasso print centered in the middle. A plain white wall — but with a nice shiny fresh coat of paint.
I sink to the floor, a burn rippling through my chest, feeling like up has suddenly become down and down is now up.
