But, then again, he didn’t see the notepad the same way I saw the notepad. Pages upon pages of writing bled through in indentations, yes. But where he saw jumbled indentations, I saw each letter and number scratching itself out faintly in the correct hue, creating a blur of mixed colors. Orange As and purple threes and the lunch-meat pink and lemon chiffon of Es and Hs and the oxford blue of the word Friday. The mottled yellow-green word Pear and the velvety burgundy word Magic. Nothing that came together in anything that made sense.

Except two words—one midnight with star pops of light, the other sunshine yellow.

Celestial. Day.

But as I looked closer, I realized it was not Celestial; it was something shorter. Celeste.

Celeste Day.

I didn’t know what Celeste Day was, or what it had to do with Jones, or Luna, or the white-blond-haired man driving the truck.

But I sure as hell intended to find out.

5

AFTER CHRIS AND I parted ways at the police station, I drove straight home, turning the two words over in my head as I went. Celeste Day. Celeste Day. It rang no bells. Was it a fair? A celebration of the moon and stars? One of those unofficial “holidays” that nobody but the person who created it celebrates, like National Hot Dog Day? Not one I’d ever heard of. Was it a person?

I was going to have to figure out who or what Celeste Day was.

Dad was downstairs in the basement when I got home. I could hear the metal clink of free weights hitting each other. He hardly ever worked out. Only when he was completely stressed or had something weighing on his mind.

Like guilt, maybe, Dad?

Like, maybe, the feeling that your daughter is figuring out that you had some sort of link to the family who has been trying to kill her? That maybe you suspect she might be this close to finding out you were somehow involved in your own wife’s death?

The thought turned me icy.

I sat in the kitchen, turning up the TV to drown out Dad’s grunts, and ate a sandwich, Hue sitting patiently at my feet waiting for me to drop something. I was staring at whatever dumb show was on, but my mind was everywhere else. Dad, Luna, Chris’s memory loss, Celeste Day.

I was rinsing my plate when Dad appeared at the top of the basement stairs. He had a towel draped over his neck, and his hair was wet with sweat. He was cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt.

“You’re home.”

“Yep. Going upstairs, though. Got some work to do.”

He scrunched up his face. “What kind of work?”

“Research,” I said. “Job research.”