“Art, she’s your stepsister, and she’s gorgeous. I’ve seen her, remember?”

He sat back down. “She doesn’t know. Not really.”

“Why?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“It’s complicated. But we’ve been close for years.”

“Wait a minute,” I said as realization dawned. “You were her contact. You helped her when she disappeared those three years, didn’t you?”

He pursed his lips. “How much of this will get back to my mother?”

“Unless it involved this case directly, none of it. And I can’t see how knowing you’d help your stepsister is her business.”

“Yes,” he said with a reluctant nod. “And it was the hardest three years of my life.”

He really did love her. “Well, I have to admit, you’ve just thrown a wrench into my theory. I really thought it was you.”

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t. I could tell.

“But you believe her, right?” His brows rose, his expression full of hope.

“I do. Can you give me your thoughts? I mean, surely you’ve formed a few theories over the years.”

“Nothing that ever panned out,” he said, seeming disappointed in himself. “I’ve tried for years to figure it out. One time I’d think it was the kid from next door who had a crush on her, then I’d think it was the furniture delivery man. Things would happen at the oddest times. Sometimes Harper would be home, sometimes she wouldn’t, so my mother’s theory about Harper just wanting attention is bullshit.”

I was glad he thought so. “Was there anyone else in the house growing up? Anyone who would have easy access to Harper’s room?”

“Sure, all the time. We had relatives, cousins, maids, cooks, gardeners, caterers, event planners, assistants, you name it.”

“Did any of those people live in the house?”

“Just the housekeeper and sometimes a cook. We went through a lot of those. My mother is not the easiest person to get along with.”

I could imagine. “I need to ask you something difficult, Art, and I need you to keep an open mind.”

“Okay,” he said, growing suspicious.

“Do you or have you ever suspected your mother?”

His face froze in thought. “No.” He set his jaw. “No way.”

“But your stepdad’s health is failing, right? If anything happens to Harper, you and your stepmother get it all.”

He shrugged a shoulder in resignation. “That’s true, but we get a small fortune anyway.”

“Maybe a small fortune isn’t enough. Maybe your mother has been trying to, I don’t know, drive Harper insane so she can declare her incompetent or something.”

“I understand why you’d think that, but she’s not that greedy. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. My mother wasn’t lying. It all started right after they got married. I’d only met Harper a couple of times before the wedding, but she was just a normal girl.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards, she’d changed. And despite what my mother thinks, I don’t think it had anything to do with their marriage.” He leaned forward and leveled those hawklike eyes on me. “I think something happened to her during my parents’ honeymoon. Something that’s connected with all of this.”

“She didn’t mention an incident.”

“I’ve done research on PTSD, Ms. Davidson, and looking back, I think Harper had the symptoms. She was only five, for God’s sake. Who knows what she’s repressed.”

“Well, you’re definitely right about that. Bad memories can be repressed. I’m glad she had you, though. Someone in her corner.”

“Me, too.” He grinned and sat back. “I wonder if she’s ever going to let me live that fire down.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

11

Since killing people is illegal,

can I have a Taser just for shits and giggles?

—T-SHIRT

Maybe Art was right. Maybe Harper had repressed something. An inciting incident that set this whole thing into motion.

If anyone would know, it should be her first therapist.

I called Cookie and after going through verbal instructions on how to turn the ring volume down on her phone, I got the information for Harper’s first therapist, a psychologist named Julia Penn. She was retired, and Cookie couldn’t get any contact information other than an address. She lived in Sandia Park just over the mountains. I had a thousand and one things I wanted to do today, including check on Harper and Quentin, and pay a couple of old friends a visit, namely Rocket, a departed savant who lived in an abandoned mental asylum. But I decided to pay her a visit anyway. It shouldn’t take too long.

I drove on the historic byway of Turquoise Trail through a rich landscape to the prestigious San Pedro Overlook, an affluent community at the base of Sandia Park.

Struck by its beauty, I called Cookie back.

“Did I not mention the ring thing is bothering me today?”

“Cook, how can you have a hangover? You were fine at four-ish this morning.”

“It hadn’t hit me yet. It hit me later. Around seven twenty-two. Are those Gemma’s pants?”

“Yep.”

“How did she—?”

“I have no idea. Look, I just called because screw this apartment building crap. Since we can’t have the cool apartment, I say we move out here.”