The Remaining Sister (Sister Series, #9)

by Leanne Davis

  Except… except perhaps… with her. Her life felt over. Done. Finished. She kept these grim thoughts to herself, however.

  Eventually, the daylight illuminated the drapes. Chloe exhaled a huge breath as if the daylight meant no one could lurk outside. As if that somehow made her safe. She knew it didn’t really. After all, her own sister was a murder victim.

  But she wanted to embrace the sunlight if only to pretend she was safe.

  “Let me make you some coffee and breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Ryder.”

  “You cleaned up your house? Or did your mom come by?” She heard the hope in his voice.

  Waving a hand around, Chloe replied, “No. Not mom. A friend did.”

  His gaze traveled over her. “I’m glad. I worry about you, Chloe. I was afraid after today—”

  “That I’d freak out and fire both of you?”

  He smiled. “That thought crossed my mind. I had this moment that was so odd. After I asked Tara to marry me and she said yes, I suddenly saw Ebony’s face in the window. I thought, I swear to God, I actually thought she’d come back to give me her blessing and that it was okay with her if I moved on. A weird sensation of peace fell over me. It’s so stupid now, I realize, but for a moment, a real moment, I believed—”

  “I was her.”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head and shuddered. His lips tweaked upwards. “Can you imagine? How prone I am to such examples of the impossible? I think I just wanted that to be the case. I really wanted it so much. The comfort and knowledge that Ebony was okay with it, and at peace. I want her to forgive me for moving on.”

  “Because I wasn’t forgiving you.”

  He licked his lips. “Perhaps it was more that than anything else.”

  “I’m working on it, Ryder.”

  He leaned forward and took her hand and squeezed it. “No hurry on that.”

  She nodded.

  “How about you coming with me to the police station? I’m sure they’ll change your interview time. We can pick up your car after that.”

  “Okay. Yes. Thank you.” She ducked into her bathroom to shower and comb her hair. Baby steps. She called Chet and left a message that she didn’t need a ride because Ryder was taking her.

  She and Ryder suffered through the long interviews. She spoke for hours, longer than she had in years about her sister. From her habits, to her likes and dislikes, to her typical days from childhood until the day she disappeared. They discussed her daily schedule and laid out a general outline of what she did. They also discussed Wyatt’s birth and her postpartum depression. Every detail from the last day of Ebony’s life to the week before, the month before and the entire year before she was permanently stricken from their lives. Chloe wracked her brain to find someone, somewhere who didn’t fit into the overall fabric of their lives. Someone who was bothering Ebony or the family or just seemed overly interested in her. Nothing came to mind.

  After the exhausting discussion of her sister, Chloe was quiet with Ryder. He dropped her off to retrieve her car and she left him without saying much. What was there to say? He suffered through the same treatment and had to relive as many painful memories as she did.

  But he now had Tara to go home to and share it with, to comfort him, and to make it just a smidgeon less terrible for him.

  Which she was now trying to be grateful to Tara for, instead of the automatic bitterness that tried to singe her thoughts. No. She was better than that. She could be relieved Ryder and especially Wyatt were not alone with the burden of Ebony’s loss. They had Tara.

  After the fright of the previous night, Chloe wasn’t sure what she would do next. The idea of returning to her dark house didn’t exactly appeal to her. Should she go to her parents’ house? Yeah, and resume the silent, vacant staring before avoiding eye contact altogether as they realized they had nothing left to say each other? Or should she go to the café and irrationally raise hell once more? None of it sounded very appealing. Neither did sitting there and waiting for someone to come poking around again either. So where should she go? What should she do?

  Sighing, she got out of the car she was sitting in without moving. She entered the back of the restaurant and slid through, trying to stay silent. No Chet. Good? Bad? She wasn’t sure. She slipped into her office with just a small wave at Petra. She had nothing to say to any of them. She didn’t want to engage. She shut the door and quickly turned towards the file cabinet. She opened the bottom drawer and flipped through each file until she came to Chet Willapana. Her heart instantly accelerated at seeing his name. She recalled his presence. Suddenly, he had become something more than an employee file to her. She glanced over his paperwork, noting his age was indeed twenty-four. She took a Post-It note and quickly wrote down his address, hoping it was still current.

  Tucking the file back, she sprang to her feet, feeling energized for the first time in weeks. She exited her establishment, jumped into her car and headed south, going downriver. She finally had something to do and somewhere to go. And for the first time in a long time, something had really piqued her interest and it wasn’t sad.

  Chapter Nine

  WHAT THE HELL WAS she going to do? Just show up there? Knock? Walk in? She stared at what she believed was Chet’s residence. Bypassing a large house that was set back behind a vast, freshly mown meadow. The land was obviously once a farm and was prime river front. She continued past the house and beyond it saw a small building that was quaint and cute. It appeared to have been a guest cabin at one time. His address was that of the main house but Chet mentioned on his job application that it was the small building behind the main house, which she now stared at.

  She got out of her car, her heart hammering in her chest. What was she doing here? What was she expecting from this stranger, a man she’d known for three years? What were they to each other now?

  She had no idea. She softly shut the car door and stepped up to the solitary front door. It had a large window in it that was uncovered. She peeked in and saw no one. To her surprise, the entire place was cluttered with canvases. She stared at them in admiration and bewilderment. She put her hand out to knock on the door and pressed it open. Glancing around, she almost expected someone to stop her. Feeling conspicuous, she shuddered at the slight flutter of the breeze through the bushes besides her. She sucked in a breath for courage and entered the house, calling out, “Chet? Are you here? It’s me, Chloe.”

  She didn’t really put her whole heart into her voice because her attention was instantly riveted on what she saw lying about the room. There was a couch at the end of it, pushed against the wall and opposite that, a TV. Sliding glass doors opened to a small deck, and beyond that was an unobstructed view of the river rushing by. It was far enough away that even high water couldn’t reach the small guest house. The land dipped down to the shoreline where the bubbling, swirling current of the mighty Columbia swept by. Chloe could see the looming black and deep green of the Oregon coastline. That made up the rest of the view, towering over everything and feeling larger than the blue sky above it all. The sun was drifting downwards, turning the hills a robust, red wine color. Breathing long deep breaths, the view impressed her but not as much as what she saw all around the place.

  At the other end was a small kitchen. A lone counter, a fridge, a stove, a microwave but no dishwasher. Covering all the wall space, or stacked against it were more canvases, of all sizes. She guessed Chet might have been living with his mother but she never expected anything like this.

  Chet was a painter? An artist? Holy crap. She had no idea. None whatsoever.

  Who was this person she so swiftly started sleeping with?

  She swiveled around, staring at the plethora of paintings, trying to take in the sheer volume of them. Words failed her. She assumed it was all his work. He painted realistic scenes. Each line and color portrayed images she recognized. Many of them were rural landscapes from around there. Some were breathtakingly beautiful. Like the one of lupine blooming by the
mile down a meadow, like a purple haze drifting into the river. The mountains and river were drowned in dozens of vivid sunset colors, and the storming rainclouds hovering over the Oregon coastline imbued it with a theatrically gothic ambience.

  She kneeled down and started rifling through them. There was a portrait of Dok. She paused, staring at it in wonder. Several more showed his mother in rather ordinary settings, some as mundane as performing chores or sitting and staring out at a swirling, colorful horizon around her. Chet managed to capture the calm stillness in Dok that Chloe always admired. She wondered What were these? Oil paintings? She had no idea, lacking any background in art. Several were portraits of people she didn’t recognize. One showed Native Americans selling salmon to jean-clad tourists up at the Cascade Locks. It was exquisite in its freakishly real clarity, as well as the depictions of fisherman in boats, bobbing at anchor out by the Shad Rack, a place she recognized. Ryder told her it was where a lot of anglers liked to fish. There were dozens of pictures he painted of Beacon Rock, captured in every kind of light and weather variation, from people picnicking at the boat launch near its base, to hang gliders soaring off the top. Other pictures revealed broader views of the Washington side of the river and the trains swooping through it. There were plenty more of the river too, peppered with tugboats and barges moving up and down the main channel. He even included the crews, walking the ships or tying lines on tugs as they carried their freight of wheat and logs downriver.

  Chet painted every single view and perspective of the way of life around there. There wasn’t much he missed. Chloe paused and gasped in shock when she found a painting of herself. Holy shit. Staring down at it in disbelief, she pulled it out to examine it. She was inside her café, which he carefully painted, including all the accurate details. But he blended them all in more softly than reality. Standing near the front counter, she was leaning on it, as she often did, and smiling. Her hand was suspended in mid-air and she appeared to be talking to the customer in front of her. Gary was sitting on his stool and Mr. Hepstourn was eating a single scoop of vanilla ice cream. She saw a few faces she didn’t recognize. In each portrait, Chet painted the most exquisite, crazy-real details. Each expression and personal mannerism was exquisitely frozen on the canvas. They looked so deep and honest, and real, exactly like each person. Gary’s gaze was directed toward the back of a blonde waitress, which was obviously Tara’s backside. A soft, gentle longing shone in his eyes. Not overt ogling. It perfectly reflected his shy crush on Tara. And the way Mr. Hepstourn sat, looking so alone with his single scoop of plain ice cream, also easily conveyed his sad isolation since losing his wife three years earlier to kidney disease. He looked just as lost and alone as he did on her last day with him.

  Flipping through the canvases some more, Chloe saw her face. She went back to examine it more closely. She wasn’t smiling at the counter, but staring downwards, and her face had no makeup, making her seem very plain in its mood and effect. She could feel the stark grief in her eyes that Chet painted. How did he manage to capture that? It was so obviously her and the way she’d looked since Ebony’s body was found. He managed to paint the grief she felt in her soul. She gazed at it, and her heart squeezed and hurt. She wondered if she felt anger toward him for seeing it, or awe at his ability to portray exactly what she felt. How did she feel at seeing her emotional breakdown on canvas? Never mind that it was his unique vision and obvious talent. Was she touched that he actually perceived that in her and used it for inspiration?

  But then again it also felt like a breach of her privacy. Like her pain was fodder for his hobby.

  Exhaling a few deep breaths before she was ready to face it again, she lifted it back up and studied the sad, bitter, alone, and broken woman who looked so much older than she remembered her. It was almost like she were staring at herself and Ebony. That’s what was so creepy about it.

  She was startled when a scuffling sound drew her attention and her heart accelerated instantly. Behind her, the door suddenly opened and Chet stepped out. He stopped dead when he spotted her. She was squatting before a pile of his paintings. Swallowing hard, all she could do was look at him. He’d been showering. Duh. That’s why he didn’t hear her. Water dripped from his hair, streaming down his shoulders and chest. A few strands of hair flipped over onto his forehead. A white towel was wrapped around his waist and his long legs were visible from the calves down. She couldn’t deny the sharp stab of sexual attraction. She wasn’t aware of it until just then.

  She rose up to her full height. His mouth didn’t twitch up or down, but neither did he frown at her or appear angry. Nothing. Stone-faced as usual. She smiled, embarrassed and anxious to conceal her unease. He still didn’t respond or show any expression. Huh. What did he think? How should she proceed? Should she apologize for entering without his permission? Gush over his artwork? Run out of there, fearing he was mad that she stole a peek at his art? She suddenly realized she was holding the canvas that depicted her. Slowly, she returned it to the stack while they played chicken with their eyes in a deadlock.

  “I… I knocked first. The door was open. I thought you’d hear me when I called your name.”

  He stepped closer, passing by her. “But when I didn’t, you decided to come on in and have a look around?”

  She watched him pick up his phone and quickly hit the screen before typing with lightning-fast fingers. Obviously, some kind of chore must have been responsible for getting him out of the bathroom while still undressed. Her gaze stayed riveted on his form. When had he gotten such a ripped chest? And back? And calves? How had she never noticed it?

  “I got your address from your employee file. I hope—”

  He stared at his phone before glancing up. “Finally read it, huh? Find anything else interesting? My name? Age? Ethnicity? Languages that I might speak?”

  She grimaced at his sarcasm. He clicked the phone off and fully gave his attention to her, crossing his arms over his chest. “You often just let yourself into other people’s homes?”

  “No.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “I just…”

  His eyebrows rose, as if he were impatiently waiting. She sighed. “I couldn’t help seeing the paintings and I had to see more. More than I cared about observing proper etiquette. So I… I just let myself in.” She dropped her face down, feeling ashamed. What if these were his personal secret? Some sensitive artist quirk and he didn’t allow anyone else to look at them? What if he refused to forgive her for so rudely barging in there?

  He ran a hand through his hair, but seemed distracted. “Something happen? Why did you look up my address?”

  She turned and casually started strolling past the paintings, her hand gently gliding over the top of them as if she were dying for something else to capture her attention. She shrugged almost listlessly now. “No. Nothing. I just realized I didn’t have even your cell phone number, and considering you work for me, I should have it—”

  “You’ve never needed it before. Why now?”

  Her shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you want to see me?”

  She licked her lips and forced her gaze up to him. Then she felt hot and blushing as she ogled his damp, naked torso. Sunlight flooded across his body from the high window above him. “Yes. Okay? I just didn’t know how to contact you. So I got your information from my files.”

  He picked up his phone and seconds later, her own rang. “There, now you have it.”

  She sighed. He didn’t seem mad, neither from her intrusive entrance or because she was poking around his things. His paintings. No small breach of privacy. She stepped by the sliding glass door, and stared out. “I had no idea you were such a good artist.”

  “I’m not.”

  She whipped around at his grunt-like reply. She tilted her head. “Are you being coy? I mean, take a look around you.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter. As he straightened up, he shrugged. “I paint sometimes. T
hat doesn’t make me an artist.”

  “What do you think an artist is? Any painter is an artist by definition.”

  “No. An artist sells his work or desperately wants to, and often tries to. I just paint for a hobby.”

  “O-o-oh…ka-a-y,” she said, drawing out her syllables. “You’re fantastic at it too. I mean, the way you manage to capture people’s expressions and moods is crazy, and eerily correct. I can’t believe this is what you like to do in your spare time. Your hobby.”

  He shrugged. “I paint what I observe. See, I’m not an artist because I only like painting reality, nature, and people, all the things I can actually see or imagine. I don’t paint a circle and try to endow it with the meaning of life or that kind of shit.”

  She bit her lip at the disdain she detected in his voice. “You mean, like abstract art?”

  “Yeah, you know, real art. Never did get that shit. When someone tells me to ‘see what I want in it,’ it’s usually some kind of crazy, undistinguishable gobs of color or coiled metals. That kind of art means nothing to me. Never could find any meaning in them.”

  Chloe didn’t intend to but she laughed anyway. “I think painting realistically is very artistic. It’s not easy to reproduce something that you saw so accurately and true.”

  “Nah. Not profound enough.”

  “I think you’re brilliant. I mean the way you painted the customers at the café, I could tell you all about them even if I didn’t know any of them.”

  “Brilliant? Sure, at painting exactly what I see.” He didn’t pretend to hide behind his humility but neither did she think he realized his talent. How unique his art was. How moving. How sensitive he was to people that he could observe so well, and reproduce so realistically on a canvas.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Again. It’s just a hobby. Why should you?”