When she saw me, her mouth sagged open. “Kacy? What are you doing here?” Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office behind her, I could see a piece from the sculpture garden with rough metal spikes arching away from a polished basalt center, as dark and glossy as Aimee’s modern desk.

My mind went blank. After almost two years of poisoned memories and social media photos, now Aimee looked smaller than I’d remembered, or at least no taller than me. Her skin stretched taut across her collarbones, and concealer couldn’t quite hide the shadows under her eyes. Maybe her life wasn’t so perfect after all.

“There’s a woman,” I blurted. “The police are looking for her, and I think I saw her in your picture, your story last night.”

“Why are you here, Kacy, really?” Aimee’s tone was stagy, the way she’d talked when we were at a bar and she wanted the guy two drinks down to hear us.

“Brady Voss was on the news, the serial killer from Texas.” But Aimee knew this. She’d taunted me about it in a postcard.

Now she tilted her head, her eyes bright and blank as glass gems, waiting.

“His wife is here, and she was right next to you at the bar last night. I saw it in your feed. She knows about the museum. You’re in danger.” I sounded crazy, and I hated it. She’d think I was looking for a way to get back in, but all I wanted was to convince her so my conscience would be clear.

She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “You were post-stalking me? Sad.”

“No, I came to warn you—”

“Is this a threat? Is that what’s happening here?” She slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt. “You found some other unhinged lunatic and sent her after me?”

“They thought he’d killed her, but she sent me a postcard, like you did.” I spoke sharply now. How had I ever put up with the drama and the game playing? Gossip at work, drunken nights and crowded clubs, hangovers that made thinking harder and emotions more raw.

“I didn’t send you any postcard.” Her voice had a singsongy tone, light, like a child’s playground chant. She was lying, and she didn’t care if I knew it. Why should she? The director was never on-site, and in his absence, she was queen.

“Quit playing games. I’m trying to help—”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Only an idiot would come back after what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything. I … you …”

“I … you …” she mimicked, and then the smirk vanished from her lips. “You’re crazy. You’d have to be. After all you’ve done, you have the nerve to show up here?”

Screw this. “Fine. I’m leaving. I just came to warn you. You’re not safe. There’s a killer after you, and you’re not safe. Do you understand?”