Page 62 of Accidental Murder
If she knocked on his door, would he welcome her after she’d rejected him the other night or send her packing?
Be bold.
She started along the path and paused a second time, uncertain she could continue to convince him she was Ashley. Catapulting down California Street in the last vestiges of rain had destroyed the Ashley look she’d adopted. Plus she’d scrubbed her face clean before getting ready for bed.
Just do it.
She moved to the front door and knocked.
Peter opened it, paintbrush in hand. His work shirt was splattered with red. His face, too, but his cheeks were suffused with energy. “What are you doing here?” he blurted and immediately said, “Sorry. Hi. I’m glad you came. I just meant I didn’t expect to see you. Ever again, honestly.”
Kayla pushed past him, as Ashley would have, and tossed her backpack on the floor.
“You’re damp,” Peter said.
“It was raining earlier.” Matter-of-fact. Like Ashley.
Peter laid his brush on a counter and followed her. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Talk to me.”
Kayla wondered if her shivering was from the cold air or from the fear that her act was failing. “You’ve rearranged things.”
Blue canvas director’s chairs faced an antique pew bench. Multicolored throw rugs warmed the bare wood floors. Well-placed spotlights highlighted a variety of new artwork on the walls.
She stopped short when she noticed a painting of Ashley, her face hard and sad. She pointed to it. “A tad angry with me?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. Kayla imagined what was running through his head:Why do I put up with her?She settled intoone of the director’s chairs and picked up a book of Ansel Adams photography.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” This time his voice had an edge to it. “The other night we ended on a bitter note.”
“Thought you might want some company.”
He took the book from her hands. Set it on the table. Crouched and clenched her shoulders. “What happened to Ashley, Kayla?”
Panic ripped through her.He’s testing you.
She pushed him away and stood up. “That’s not funny.”
He pursued her. “Why are you pretending to be her?”
“I’m not?—”
“Your eyes.”
Kayla froze. Had she betrayed herself? No, she’d been careful. She had conveyed the right amount of self-assurance.
“Remember the night at La Lumiere?” he continued. “Ash told us about the visit to the iridologist. The spot on her left iris is in all her pictures. You don’t have one.”
Kayla took a step back. Her shoulders bumped the mantel above the fireplace. “Peter?—”
He took her hands in his. Electricity shot through her. She shook free.
“Kayla, I saw the computer on your bed before you closed the door. Your sister would have elected to be tortured by terrorists rather than face a computer.” He attempted a smile. “And when I was standing on the doorstep ready to leave I checked your eyes. I played along, but I can’t any longer. Talk to me. Someone murdered Ash—” His voice snagged. He jammed his lips together before starting again. “Someone killed her, and the police assume she was you. Why? Tell me why!”
A nagging sensation shimmied down Kayla’s spine. Would the killer guess she would turn to Peter for help? Was she putting him in danger?
