the rich lather. From somewhere she heard music again, the song older than the woman on the third floor. Past the music, she heard voices, though too faint to make out the words.
She couldn’t help but think about the story Odell had told her. The history of Cape Diablo and the Santiago family fascinated her. She’d felt something when she’d stepped off the boat and looked up at the crumbling old villa. A sense of mystery. A story unfolding. Or had she sensed something else? The spirits of the lost souls? Or a sense of foreboding as if she’d been drawn to this island for another purpose?
She shivered, wondering again what could have happened to the family and even more intrigued by the woman who’d stayed on upstairs.
Odell certainly was knowledgeable about Cape Diablo. She felt foolish for suspecting him of having other motives for being on the island. And yet, anyone could learn the history of the place. And pretending to be a writer gave him the perfect cover.
She shook her head at the path her mind had taken. She hated that she was suspicious of everyone now.
Finishing her bath, she toweled dry and dressed in a sleeveless nightshirt. She felt better, calmer, back in control somewhat, she thought as she started to wipe the steam from the mirror and was momentarily startled by her own unfamiliar image in the glass.
Her hand went to her short curly auburn hair. It did make her eyes seem larger. Or that could have been the fear.
She picked up the glasses from where she’d left them on the sink. The lenses were clear, but the plastic frames distracted from her face enough to make her look entirely different from the woman she’d been just weeks before.
She touched her hair again, missing the feel of her long, naturally straight blond hair inherited from her Swedish ancestors.
But she would let her hair grow out again. After Landry was caught, after the trial—when it was safe to go back to her life, she told herself, trying hard to believe she could ever reclaim it.
Glancing around the apartment, she decided the first item of business would be to make this place more her own. What little furniture there was had been shoved against each wall.
She grabbed the end of the couch and pulled it away from the wall and saw at once why it had been pushed against the wall as it had been.
There was a sizable hole in the wall behind it.
On closer inspection, she saw that the hole—four inches wide, a good foot high and seemingly endless in depth—had been chipped into the adobe wall. She couldn’t tell how deep it ran. Not without a flashlight.
As she straightened she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor near the hole. She picked it up and saw that it was a piece of a torn photograph. The piece appeared to be part of a face covered with something like a gauzy veil or a film of some kind.
She peered into the hole and thought she saw another piece of the torn photograph. How odd.
Vaulting over the couch she dug in her purse for the penlight on her key ring. In the kitchen she found a butter knife and returned to behind the couch.
Shining the tiny light into the hole, she began to dig out the pieces of the photo with the butter knife. She still couldn’t tell how deep the hole was—obviously too deep for her dim light. But there were more pieces of the photograph in there, as if they’d fallen down from the floor above.
Diligently she worked the pieces out until she couldn’t reach any more.
Just as she was starting to collect the scraps, a sliver of light sliced down through the top of the hole. Willa angled her gaze upward into the opening and saw light coming through what appeared to be a crack in floorboards upstairs.
She’d thought no one lived directly above her. She heard the creak of footsteps on the floor overhead. The light went out. She listened, but heard nothing more.
Taking the pieces of the photograph over to the small kitchen table, she pulled up a chair and began to fit the pieces together like a puzzle, curious after seeing the veiled face in the first piece.
The graphic artist who’d mentioned Cape Diablo had also been an avid photographer. Was it possible this was one of her photos? Or maybe that she’d even stayed in this very room?
The photograph began to take shape. Several of the edge pieces were missing but she was starting to see an image. What was it she was looking at?
She laid down the last piece and felt a jolt. It was a photo of the pool in the courtyard, the water murky and dark.
Funny, but the face that had spurred her curiosity enough to put the photograph back together in the first place seemed to have disappeared.
That was strange.
Carefully she turned the pieces of the photograph a hundred and eighty degrees and gasped.
A boy of about four was lying on the bottom of the pool in the deep end, the dark water like a mask over his face. There was no doubt that the child was dead.
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