I spent the drive anticipating what I would say when we got there, while Cody spent it scanning radio channels, unable to settle on one. I was glad for the company. I couldn’t have done this alone.

When we pulled up to the house, I double-checked the address against my navigation. This couldn’t be right. Based on what I had seen online of Blythe and her mother, hardcore and tattooed with their dark makeup and dark hair and dark moods, I expected something…different. Not this flower-bedecked garden, pots brimming with mums, aster, and marigolds. Two beautifully carved pumpkins sat like sentries at the top of the porch steps. An autumn-themed flag waved in the breeze, attached to this homey cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter subdivision full of cookie-cutter families.

“We’re here.” I turned to Cody and sucked in a heart-steadying breath.

The image of Blythe’s mother’s teardrop face tattoos flashed in my mind, something I’d read somewhere was a badge of honor for murder. Or was it for jail time? Did I read that or see it on Orange Is the New Black? I couldn’t remember, only that it was a bad thing.

I dipped my hand in my purse, feeling for the knife’s hilt as I stepped out of the car.

I gripped it tightly as I walked up the walkway lined with purple violas.

I lifted it slightly from my purse as I knocked on the door. Red, like blood. I prayed it wasn’t a premonition.

Cody shuffled beside me as we waited. Knocked again. Then a teenage girl answered the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she’d been high for days. Her nose was red, like she’d snorted a line of coke. Her face was pale, gaunt, almost skeletal. She looked stoned out of her mind.

Cody must have thought so too. I felt his fingers tighten around my arm, trying to pull me away, but I stood my ground, taking in every detail about the girl who threatened Vera, hurt Vera, and thus hurt me.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Felicity

Blythe Sampson looked worse than the surly, broody teenage girl I had imagined. I wondered what cocktail of drugs she was on. Her hair was a greasy mess, and her cropped T-shirt was ripped on one shoulder, matching the holes in both knees of her black leggings. When her lips parted to speak, I expected the voice of Satan. Instead, her voice was polite and sweet:

“Can I help you?”

I swallowed an anchor weighing my words down. I could barely breathe, let alone speak. Just uttering Vera’s name hurt like hell, but having to explain why I was here, that I needed her help finding Vera, took every bit of strength left in me after six months of hoping she’d miraculously walk through the front door. Six months of asking for help, six months of searching for answers, six months of closed doors…