“Tim of the chopsticks.”
“Rachel of the really red lipstick.”
No. Not Rachel, she thought, crossing to the bed and sinking onto it. Please God, not Rachel.
She looked at the box in her hands, wondering again what it could be. Acknowledging the only way to find out, she pulled the tab, then opened the lid. Inside was a note card and a tissue-wrapped item.
Alex opened the card. It read:
Dear Alexandra,
I hope you are well. I discovered this while I was packing for my move to Oregon. (To be near my daughter and grandchild.) This was left behind the last time I babysat for you. I set it aside, thinking your mother would come for it, but she never did.
Peace and love,
Rita
Alex carefully unwrapped the package. A silver baby brush, she saw. The silver was tarnished, though considering the years that had passed, not as badly as she would have expected.
She gazed at it a moment, tears blurring her vision. She had so few mementos from her early years; she had always wondered why. And had always felt unwanted because of it.
She ran her fingers over the soft bristles, heart in her throat. She turned it over-and found it was engraved. She rubbed at the engraving with the hem of her T-shirt.
Beloved Alexandra-Daughter of the vine-March 17, 1980
She stared at the words in a combination of excitement and distaste. And a sense of destiny fulfilled. Like Rachel and Clark. Like Dylan. She was one of them-a daughter of the vine. Why else would she have been given that brush, engraved that way?
One of them, she thought again. Her father had been from a wine family.
But was he also a killer?
Suddenly cold, she stood and drew back the covers, then crawled into the bed. She cradled the brush to her chest, though a sour taste filled her mouth as she recalled the things that Tim had said about her father: He was a really bad man… Your mother left Sonoma to protect you from him… blamed him for Dylan…
What did you do, Tim? she wondered, eyes burning. Try to play hero? Figure you could charge in with your psychobabble and good intentions, and what? Talk it out? Turn him around?
Could he have connected with him? His note had said he had news. The champagne suggested the news had been good. Celebratory.
News about her father. Maybe.
Could he have known more than he’d told her? Probably. Maybe even a name. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember everything he’d said, the questions he’d asked and her responses to them.
At one point, Tim had asked her where the BOV story had originated. In that short conversation, why would that have mattered?
The story. About the boys and her mother. Of course. Her mother had called him a liar, warned that he had told lies about her.
Wayne Reed.
The realization hit her and she sat up. Wayne Reed had passed the story to his son. He’d made no secret of his dislike for her, his wish that she would go away.
His warning to “stay away from my sons” took on new meaning, and she brought a hand to her mouth. She and Reed could be brother and sister.
Surely not. Surely, somehow, on some instinctual level, they would have known.
But, God, it made sense. All of it-the elder Reed’s dislike, the BOV story, his desire for her to be gone. His concern that she would become involved with one of his sons.
Unable to sit still, she climbed out of bed and began to pace. Could Reed be her brother? She couldn’t focus on the horror of that, not now. She needed to discover if Wayne Reed really was her father. And if he was-had he killed to keep his secret safe?
As she paced, her thoughts whirled. Again and again, she analyzed the things she knew to be true-and those she didn’t. The minutes ticked into an hour, then two. But the same questions remained. Plus others.
How did she prove it? Where did Dylan’s disappearance fit into the scenario? If the Boys of the Vine had been a lie, what did BOV mean? And the image of the vines and snake?
She couldn’t do this alone. But who could she turn to? Not Reed. Tim was dead. Rachel, she realized. She was the only one she had left.
“Tim of the chopsticks.”
Alex hesitated. her stomach seeming to crawl up to her throat. What did she choose to believe? That’s what it came down to.
And in her heart-and gut-she believed Rachel was on her side.
She had no one else. Do it. Now.
Alex started out of the bedroom, then hesitated. What if Rachel thought she was crazy, the same as Reed did? What would she do then? Who would she turn to?
She couldn’t worry about that now. She had to do this.
Alex exited the bedroom and hurried down the hall to Rachel’s. She rapped on the door. “Rachel,” she called. “It’s Alex. I have to talk to you.”
The light popped on and Rachel responded with a thick-sounding “Come in.”
Rachel was sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
“I need your help. I know who killed Tim.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “My God, who?”
“My father. Wayne Reed.”
For a long moment, Rachel simply stared at her. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“And you’re certain? You have proof?”
Alex shook her head. This was the point it got tricky. “I think I’m right. The pieces fit, but-”
“But you have no proof?”
“No.”
Rachel held her gaze. “Then, what do you have, Alex?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Wednesday, March 17
1:40 A.M.
They agreed to meet in the kitchen in five minutes. Rachel claimed she couldn’t think without caffeine and Alex used the time to collect the baby brush and prepare her thoughts.
When she entered the kitchen, Rachel was already there, preparing lattes at a high-tech-looking machine. She wore a fuzzy robe and Uggs. She shuffled across to the breakfast counter with the two drinks. “Quad shot for me,” she said. “Single for you. You look like you’re already wide awake.”
She was, Alex acknowledged. Her every nerve ending seemed to be humming. Truth was, even a little caffeine might be too much.
Rachel sank onto one of the bar stools. “Hit me with it, Alex. Whatcha got?”
Alex launched in. She started at the beginning, sharing everything, every event, thought, comment and feeling. She told her about Rita Welsh and what she had learned about her mother from her; she shared the BOV story-her voice growing thick with emotion. She described her visions, her nightmares and the details of her panic attacks in the caves.
Rachel finished her latte and made another. She listened attentively, rarely commenting.
Alex explained how she had recognized the sandalwood scent and learned it was Lyla Reed’s favorite. And how Clark’s aggression in the winery had made its way into her dreams.
“How so?” Rachel asked, standing and crossing to the coffee machine for a sprinkle of cinnamon.
“His voice. And something he said-‘You want to know so bad. I’ll show you.’ ”
Rachel didn’t reply, and she went on. Deciding to hide nothing, lay it all out for the other woman to examine, Alex shared that she and Reed had become lovers.
Finally, she explained why she had called Tim. How she feared for her own sanity, then about his call to her at the spa, detailing the things he’d said about her father, and finally describing returning to her rental and finding Tim dead. Her grueling interview by the police.
Alex took a deep breath. “That package you gave me last night was from that old friend of my mother’s, Rita the librarian. My silver baby brush. My mother left it the last time Rita babysat for me and she’d found it while packing to move.”
Rachel still stood at the espresso machine, back to her. “Rach?” she asked. “Are you okay?”