I say that the very guy I’m looking for just called you and I can do nothing about it. I say that this has been how my entire life has been going lately—so close, yet so far. I say that a killer could be out on that houseboat and she could just decide to set sail any day now and never come back. And I will be living the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and wondering what happened to my mother. I will spend the rest of my life wondering if my dad was in on her murder. I will never be at peace. Not for a single day. That’s what I say.

I say that if you would just give me five minutes alone with your phone, I would . . .

“Can we look at the backyard again?” I asked. I held up my own phone. “I want to take some pictures for my husband.”

“Sure,” she said, practically leaping out of her pumps to get to the back door. I followed her out, stopping to pretend to tie my shoe, setting my phone on the counter as I did so. I left it there as I stepped through the door behind her. “So, like I said before, you have a really big backyard here. Some shade in the south corner, which is good. The shed can stay or go, depending on what you want. Great neighbors on both sides. Feel free to take whatever photos you’d like.”

I reached into my pocket and let a surprised look fall over my face. I checked my other pockets, patting them briefly, and then chuckled and rolled my eyes. “I must have left my phone inside. I can’t believe I’m so absentminded. I’m just so excited about this. One second?”

She nodded and went over to a flowerpot, poking around at a half-dead stem inside.

I darted inside and went straight to her phone, praying the colors I’d seen when she keyed in her passcode were right. It was at an angle, and I wasn’t paying the closest attention in the world. But that was one of the great things about synesthesia—sometimes it did the paying attention for you.

Cornflower blue. Sea green. Silver. Brown.

I was in.

I was fucking in!

Now all I had to do was memorize his phone number and I would be good to go. I pressed her contacts icon. I didn’t need Chris after all. I was perfectly capable of getting shit done all on my—

I nearly dropped the phone.

Peter Fairchild. White, white, white. Bronze, melon, bronze, brown.

Easy number to memorize. It wasn’t the number that made my skin crawl, my throat dry, my breath catch.

It was the photo icon next to the number.

White-blond hair, blue eyes, super-tan skin.

Peter Fairchild was the white-blond-haired man.

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