There were only two offices bigger than this one. The one at the end of the hall that had belonged to the museum director and was almost always vacant, and the one to my left with a view of the sculpture garden. Now I could almost smell the jasmine and cedar notes of her perfume.

I felt sick.

Either Aimee was dead, violently, viciously murdered, or she was alive and I’d have to face her. I raised my hand to tap on the door but stopped. This corridor, this closed door, this building, featured in every nightmare I’d had for the last two years, but I had bigger fears now. I didn’t need to force myself to face this one. I’d just ask at the desk if Aimee had come in. I didn’t have to lay eyes on her. This was stupid.

But before I could flee, the door opened and she was right in front of me, perfectly polished, from her sleek angled bob to her glossy plum lipstick. Instead of the sapphire sheath, she had on a white silky blouse, an A-line skirt in a Rorschach print, and curvy heels that had probably cost a mortgage payment. Guess she was still making plenty of money on the side.

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.”