May 5. More photographs. Dates and times written on the back. Someone has been watching long enough to know my routine. I have been a fool to think secrecy alone is protection.
May 8. Decided I cannot handle this privately anymore. Need to go to the police tomorrow. If someone dangerous has found the property, my pride about keeping the operation informal is no longer a virtue. It is a risk. The women need official protection.
The next page was blank.
George died on May 9.
I sat there holding the journal open and felt the room tilt around me.
“He never made it to the police,” I whispered.
Helena shook her head.
Beneath the journal were the photographs George had mentioned. Grainy but clear enough: Helena in the garden. Clare on the porch. The back of the farmhouse taken from tree cover. A telephoto shot of George unloading groceries from his truck.
Tucked under them was a business card for a private investigation firm in Millbrook.
That was when Clare spoke from the doorway.
“It was Brendan.”
We both turned. She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, looking younger than ever and somehow steadier now that the monster had a name in the room.