By the time she was in the warehouse again, she’d started to cry. She stood in front of the mural, tears running down her cheeks, and Jesse sat on the crate just watching her go to pieces. Finally she was able to speak.

“I’m so sorry I got you involved in this.”

“My choice to git rid of him,” he said. “Only thing is, I believe I made it worse for you. Made you have to lie. Made you go plumb off your rocker.”

“I didn’t tell Karl anything about you,” she said.

“I knew you wouldn’t.” He let out a small laugh. “No matter how nuts you gonna git, I know you won’t never do nothin’ to make trouble for me.”

“We’ve got to think of ourselves as innocent,” she said. “We have to think as though we have nothing to hide. Nothing to be afraid of.” Her gaze fell on the mural, on the big blue smudge Jesse had painted over the motorcycle. She would put the motorcycle back in the picture. Tonight, maybe, or tomorrow. It would be her punishment for taking a man’s life, having to look at that thing every time she saw her painting.

Chapter 57. Morgan

Chapter 57

MORGAN

August 2, 2018

I was alone in the foyer at six o’clock Thursday evening, sitting cross-legged in front of the mural, when Saundra walked into the gallery carrying a large, rectangular box. I started to set down my palette, but she stopped me.

“Don’t get up,” she said. “I just wanted to drop these things off. Those sketches of Jesse’s I told you about and the diary.” She set the box down on one end of Oliver’s folding table.

“Mama Nelle’s diary?” I couldn’t mask my excitement at the thought of seeing what was in that book. I set my palette down and got to my feet, brushing the dust from the back of my jeans.

“Well, guess what?” Saundra said, lifting a thin, ancient-looking leather-bound book from the box.

“What?” As I moved closer, I could see that the book’s small gold lock had been pried open. I reached out to take the book from her hands. The leather felt like butter beneath my fingers.

“It’s not Mama’s after all,” Saundra said. “I believe it might be your artist’s.”

I simply stared at her, speechless. “Anna Dale’s?” I finally managed to say, as if there could possibly be another artist she would refer to as mine.

Saundra nodded. “The inscription in the front reads To Anna and it’s from her mother. When I realized it wasn’t Mama’s, I felt like I’d be intrusive reading it—not to mention I have zero time—so you’ll just have to tell me if it says anything exciting.”