Izzy’s pulse stuttered as she scanned the rest of the obit. Bix had died in September—only a month after Monroe’s supposed suicide. There had been a fire.

That’s all the short announcement mentioned, but there was a link to a full article at the bottom of the page. Izzy clicked it.

There were more details in the full story. The police reported that Bix had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in the living room, near a stack of magazines and art supplies. Bad luck and poorly stored turpentine had caused it to spread out and consume the entire bottom floor of the house. Firefighters had tried to rescue her but had been unable to get to her in time. No one else had been home.

Officials said no foul play was suspected.

“What’d you find?”

Izzy jolted back, a full-body jump. She panted, her hand on her chest, as she looked up to find Murdoch hovering over her desk.

“Give me a heart attack,” Izzy muttered, but was quick to smile up at her boss. “Hi.”

“You found something.” Murdoch didn’t mess around with small talk, never had. Izzy loved her for it.

Izzy tried to think of the best way to shorthand everything that had happened. She and Mia had tried to keep Murdoch updated, but communications had been so limited; it felt like they’d told her nothing. “The reporter who was found dead out on St. Lucy’s? Think he was looking into some suicides on the island that involved this family.”

“The Bell family?” Murdoch asked, her eyes on the screen over Izzy’s shoulder.

“Yeah.”

Murdoch nodded for her to continue.

“Right.” Izzy snapped her fingers. “Well, turns out the mother, Bix, died in a fire only a month after the family left the island.”

“Aah.” Murdoch’s attention focused, just like Izzy’s had. “Do we suspect the husband in both deaths? Possible homicides, instead of a suicide and an accident?”

It fit. “Maybe,” Izzy said, and Murdoch studied her, probably picking up the hesitation in the drawn-out word.

“No?”

Izzy tapped her finger on the desk, reading over the details of Bix’s death once more.

Those girls were all scared. And now two of them were dead, and the third was hiding out, living among her own nightmares painted on canvas.

“I don’t know.”

Murdoch only spoke when she had Izzy’s attention once more. “Seems like the obvious conclusion. What’s bothering you?”

The answer was an itch beneath her skin, noticeable, distracting but out of reach.

Izzy glanced toward the windows on the other side of the room, already knowing what she’d find. The blue tint to the sky had faded into black so that she could see only her reflection in the glass rather than anything outside.