Last Fairytale, The (25 page)

Waiting was a challenge for Genevieve Delacourt, and it always had been. Standing in lines, expecting a sign, anticipating when the other shoe would drop. It didn’t matter. Killing time had never been her forte.

Today she was hanging around hoping for a phone call from Oliver Weston, who owed her a favor and had agreed to tail a husband who, according to his wife, was acting like a dedicated foodie at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Apparently his favorite entree was big-busted babes. And since Livvie – Gen’s nickname for Oliver – wasn’t in drag today, he could pretend he was just as male as the cad with the wandering eye.

Gen was pondering the fine line between patience and cooling your heels when she heard the outer door open and close. “Back here,” she called, then strolled down the hall that connected her office to the lobby out front.

A woman was standing by the receptionist’s desk. Her hair hung around her shoulders, thick and dirty blonde. She held a brown paper parcel snug against her chest with both arms, like it was a baby. Her clothing was smart; a light flowery dress appropriate for the warm mid-June day, topped with a thin cardigan closed at the top button. All designer labels, if Gen wasn’t mistaken.

The stranger appeared to be close to forty or a little beyond. Her eyes were tired, like she’d been through the mill and was having trouble forgetting. She was fit and pretty and jaded and worldly. Gen had seen lawyers and hookers with the same look, but she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions.

“Are you the private detective?”

“I like to think so,” Gen replied. “But investigators are supposed to ooze patience, and I’ve just been thinking I got skipped over when that virtue was handed out.”

The woman bobbed her head as though she understood. “You must have strengths that make up for it,” she replied. “Grit. Tenacity. Something must bring you back around when life goes sideways.”

Gen gave the woman a closer look. “I’m Gen Delacourt. Sounds like you know the feeling, Miss–”

“Sophie. I’m Sophie Keene.” She released the package long enough to shake Gen’s hand, then clutched it even tighter, as if she needed to protect the contents at all costs and wasn’t going to shirk her job. “Martin Richie at the food bank suggested your name.”

Gen smiled. “Follow me.” She led the way back to her office, indicated a chair, and took up residence behind the desk. “Have a seat. What can I do for you, Miss Keene?”

“I need your help.”

“Tell me about it,” Gen replied.

Sophie peeled the tape off one side of the package and slid an oil painting out of the wrappings. It was a landscape of some kind, about two feet square and fairly well done; at least it appeared to be from where Gen sat. She didn’t know much about art, but it seemed the painter knew the subject. Gen moved her laptop aside and Sophie placed it face up on the desk.

The painting depicted a cliff high above the sea. A woman stood near the edge, as if she intended to jump, or fly. But she was looking back over her shoulder toward the artist. Someone had called her from her thoughts, or her dreams. Gen wondered what she’d been thinking and who had drawn her attention from it.

“My sister.” Sophie’s voice was sad and hopeful all at the same time. “Her name was Shannon.”

“Was.”

“She disappeared twenty years ago. From the East Coast. That’s where we grew up.”

“Disappeared, as in without a trace?”

Sophie’s eyes skittered away. “She left a note. Said she was going to end it all, but her body was never found.”

Gen examined the canvas. The painter’s signature was missing, but a date had been scrawled in the bottom right corner. “This was done eight years ago,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“And you think your sister is alive somewhere and ended up as the subject of the artist’s drawing?”

“Yes. The minute I saw this I knew.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Someone who buys for me picked it up in a thrift shop in the Castro District.”

“And you took it to the cops, and they said they couldn’t help.”

Sophie picked at a fold of her skirt. “No. I haven’t spoken with the police.”

“It would be a smart move. They might help you track her down, if you convince them it’s her. They have access to resources I do not.”

Sophie kept her head bent for two beats, then raised her eyes and held Gen’s gaze. “I don’t want the authorities involved.”

“You’re going to have to tell me why.”

“Because back in New York they think she killed someone before she went missing.”

Gen took in some air and pushed away from the desk, then arranged her expression and gave the woman compassion. “Miss Keene.” She shook her head and started again.

Sophie cut her off.

“She didn’t do it. I know in my heart the police wouldn’t have been able to prove she did it. But when they couldn’t find her, when they thought she committed suicide, it was a convenient resolution. I never believed it.”

“Look,” Gen said. “There’s no easy way to say this. Family never wants to think their own blood is capable of doing bad things. If they didn’t find her body or any sign she was hiding out somewhere, she may very well have done the deed. Both of them.”

“I know she’s alive.” Sophie rummaged in her purse, then handed over a black-and-white photograph of a girl who looked remarkably like the depiction in oil. “This is Shannon.”

The still was a studio shot, and the girl was a natural. The resemblance to the woman sitting before her was unmistakable, but the subject of the picture was still a kid, posing with messy hair and a confident half smile. A lot of skin. Sexy but not over the top.

“Was she a model?”

“When she wasn’t distracted.”

“Ah,” Gen replied. “What was her diversion of choice?”

Sophie was looking at Gen, but her eyes were focused on something outside the room. The past, probably.

“Hers was Mr. Right Now,” Sophie said. “Mine was alcohol.”

# # #

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Also by Molly Greene:
Mark of the Loon,
Paint Me Gone
,
A Thousand Tombs
, and
Swindle Town.
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