“I want to. Come closer. Just a little.”

When moved toward the truth, my steps became mired in quicksand. Redirecting, I shifted back to my last real memory. Hanging pictures in J.J.’s Pub. Jack had been on-site that day and had helped me carry the two dozen framed black-and-whites into the banquet room.

“We’ve never had an art show before.” He laid the stacks of wrapped frames on a large cocktail round.

“Thank you for allowing me to be your first.”

Jack’s grin had a self-deprecating quality that was so charming. “Not exactly the big time.”

“It is for me,” I said. “It’s the first time I’ve showed anything outside of my apartment.”

“Fingers crossed you sell out.”

“Doubtful, but thanks.” I’d not been keen on showing my work, but a few in my AA group had insisted. I’d reached out to Jack, and he’d immediately agreed. Showing these pictures felt a bit like stripping down in a crowd of people.

He nodded toward the wrapped collection. “Should I unwrap these?”

I drew in a breath. “That would be great.”

“I have a hammer in the back room.”

“Not necessary.” I reached in my backpack and pulled out a hammer and packet of nails. “I didn’t want to start driving holes in your walls.”

He studied the reclaimed barnwood that he’d hired a contractor to put up a couple of years ago when he’d bought O’Malley’s, renamed it, and renovated it. “Doubt it’ll make a difference to this old wood. It’s seen its share of history.”

“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll arrange the pictures around the center of each wall. Like wrapping the room in pictures.”

“Sure.”

He pulled brown paper off the first image and held it up. As he studied the print, his amusement vanished. “Brit said they were powerful.”

I watched him, seeing sadness and anger play across his features. “You could say I’m working shit out.”

Absently, he traced the edges of the frame with his thumb. “I’m surprised you went back to this place. I’ve never been able to.”

“It was a first for me. I’ve avoided it all these years until last fall. Then I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been back at least twenty times.”

He set the picture on the empty banquet table. “You need to let this go.”

“So I keep telling myself. But I can’t. Maybe if we ever find out who did this to her, I will.”

“What good will knowing do? She’ll still be dead.”

“At least her killer won’t be running around free.” The idea that a person could have taken Clare’s life and then gotten on with their own life was intolerable.

“Who says he’s free? Whoever did something like that has got to have demons.” His scowl deepened.

“That’s very specific.”