“I don’t think that’s necessary yet, Sam. What can we tell them that we can’t tell Griffen? Helen McKay is a local trail runner and peak bagger. She logs hundreds of miles and is familiar with so many of the trails around here and throughout Yosemite.”
Sam loomed over her, shaking his head. “Stella.” This time her name was a clear warning.
“I thought I could show her a sketch and tell her I’m drawing and have this vague memory of this cool place I want to paint in detail, but can’t remember where it is. She might know.”
Sam thought it over and then nodded. “That’s a good idea, sweetheart. If she has any friends who trail run, she might ask them as well, but maybe wait until you have a little more detail.”
There wasn’t much more she could do. This was always a wait-and-see game with a killer. That was the worst part.
“I’m going to take a walk around the property. Do you want to come with me?”
He did that every night. Sam didn’t seem to need sleep the way others did. She nodded and jumped up to pull on warm sweatpants and a sweatshirt over the skimpy clothes she’d been sleeping in. She didn’t need to look glamourous for Sam. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other. If she dressed up, she could tell he liked it. If she didn’t, he still seemed to think she was beautiful— at least he always made her feel that way.
Bailey followed them outside, although she could tell her dog thought they were a little crazy for interrupting their sleep to the extent of wandering all over the property and walking out onto the pier when they could be in a comfortable bed. It occurred to Stella that it was the first time in her life that she’d ever had one of her terrible nightmares and ended up feeling content and even at peace after.
ZAHRA SAT ACROSS the table from her, dipping the fried zucchini into Shabina’s incredible and very secret sauce that had everyone coming back to her café. Stella watched her closely. Usually, Zahra was an open book. She had a pixie face, with her dark expressive eyes and pretty, very pouty mouth. Right now, she kept her gaze on the sauce and the zucchini, as if that would give her all the answers she might need.
Stella sat back in her chair and looked around the café. They’d deliberately met late for lunch, almost at closing time, Stella wanting the crowd gone so they wouldn’t be overheard at the back of the café when they sat in their favorite spot. No one was close to them because the section was cordoned off. She’d asked Shabina ahead of time if they could sit there. Shabina hadn’t asked questions, just gave her permission and said she’d clean up after, not involving her crew.
The silence seemed to stretch on forever, along with the tension. Finally, Zahra flicked her gaze up to Stella’s. “Did you think this revelation about your father would change how I feel about you?” Her voice was very low, her accent pronounced.
Stella started to press the pads of her fingers against her mouth and then realized she was doing it. “No, I didn’t say anything because I was trying to get away from that little girl and her family. The things my mother trained me not to say to anyone. I built the life that I wanted for myself and was happy in it.”
Zahra’s gaze went back to the zucchini. She dipped another piece in more sauce and swished it around. “Why did you decide to tell me now?”
Stella took a deep breath. “The thing with knowing about my father started with nightmares. I was a little kid, but I would have these dreams. I’d have five in a row and each one would give me a wider picture of what was happening. The dreams would stop and, two days later, someone would die in that exact way. I was just a little kid, and I’d tell my mother.”
She found herself rocking back and forth and she deliberately forced herself to stop. She wasn’t a little kid. She had allies now. She had Zahra, who sat across from her without judgment, ready to help without knowing what was wrong. There was Sam. Raine. She could do this.
“Essentially, you saw the murders before they happened.”
Stella nodded. “When I was a young child, it went on for years. The nightmares started when I was four, and my father wasn’t arrested until I was eight, almost nine. My mother was a terrible alcoholic by that time and she killed herself when he pled guilty to avoid the death penalty. The media circus was too much for her. She was very certain he wouldn’t be found guilty and she could continue her life in society. When she was ostracized by her friends, she became bitter and angry, mostly at me because I told on my father and she’d said not to.