The Photograph

EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® www.evernightpublishing.com Copyright© 2023 Claudia Landres ISBN: 978-0-3695-0784-6 Cover Artist: Jay Aheer Editor: CA Clauson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. DEDICATION To my amazing everyday warriors: Steph, Lara, Nadine, Selam, Karen, Tina, Marwa, Fatima, Tiffany, Sandra, and Céline. To Carrie Jones. You know why. THE PHOTOGRAPH Claudia Landres Copyright © 2023 Prologue Gabe I close the door of the hospital room behind me and slide the crumpled picture in my wallet. As I make my way toward the exit of St Mary’s Hospital, each step on the beaten beige flooring turns my grief into a quiet rage. For this, she will pay. I will find the woman who put my brother here and will stop at nothing to get my revenge. Nothing. Chapter One Aelin It’s Thursday. Good things always happen on Thursdays. I opened Aelin Thorne Interior Designs on a Thursday, my sister Cara received her invitation from Chefs of the World to join their year-long tour on a Thursday, and Emma, my best friend, gave birth to Cara’s and my goddaughter, Sam, on the truly blessed day. I want to think I was born on a Thursday, but no one was ever able to confirm it. As I set a steaming mug of coffee and a couple of cookies on my best friend-slash-assistant-extraordinaire’s desk, Emma flicks her bouncy curls over her shoulder and lifts her grin to me. “Have I told you how much I love you lately?” I pinch my lips around my smile and roll my eyes. “Only once today. You’re the worst.” Cookie in hand, Em chuckles. “It’s Thursday, you only need it once.” Still smiling, I step past the curved archway to my desk. The morning light splashes against the chrome of my three lamps as I settle behind the oak secretary I found for a bargain and turn on my laptop. A couple of hours later, Emma’s chair bumps in a muted thump against her desk as she gets on her feet, and her voice fills out the quiet space. “Going to the kitchen, need something?” Focused on my screen, I shake my head. “I’m okay. I’ve packed more cookies for you to take home.” This is one of the benefits of having a home office. Seven years ago, Cara and I used the very last penny of our savings to buy the two small houses we merged into one in this quiet, residential part of town. Located just a half hour drive from the hustle and bustle of the city center, but close enough so we don’t drag potential clients out of their geographical comfort zone, the combined house is perfect for us. The live-in part has four bedrooms, a large living room, a library, and the kitchen while the working wing has plenty of space for Cara’s test kitchen, my office, as well as my studio at the back. I smile at the selfie of Cara and me on the screensaver. We took that picture the day she left for the Chefs of the World tour. Since she’s finished culinary school, it’s been Cara’s dream to be selected for this program she calls “a chef’s course for real chefs.” The program, created six years ago by a group of super Michelin chefs, is led by two of the most exciting Michelin starred chefs of the moment—Janice Corneille and Stephen Chen. Every two years they invite six prominent young chefs to travel around the world for a year to learn new skills and hone their craft. The day the heavy envelope arrived, I did my happy jig in the hallway before leaving the envelope—logo on top— on her desk. But after two days of nothing, I entered her test kitchen where the fragrant smell of roasted something permeated the air. Cara was bent over the island scribbling on her cooking journal with her curly hair tied up in a messy bun low on her nape. She whipped her blue green eyes up as I pushed my hip on the grey stone island. “So, what did Chefs of the World want?” She straightened her back, and when she shook her head slowly, my chest tightened at her expression. “I’m sorry, my Cara, it’s their loss, they should be so lucky to have you on the program. I’m so sorry.” She lowered her eyes. “They invited me, it’s just, uh, I can’t, it’s too… I just can’t go.” My heart breaking a little, I cupped her cheek. “Why not?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Because it’s for a whole year on the other side of the world. I could never be away for that long.” I wrapped my hands around her shoulders. “Why? You’re going to miss our little Californian pocket of Heaven that much?” Her forced smile broke my heart. “Or is it because you’ll worry about me while you’re away?” Taking her stubborn silence for the yes she wouldn’t say, I touched my forehead to hers and held her hands. “You have to go, my Cara. And cut the umbilical cord someday.” When she shook her head, a curl escaped to brush her cheek. “But, what if—” I framed her face so similar to mine. “You have to go and trust me. It’s the twenty-first century, we’ll never be that far from each other anyway, so trust me and go, okay?” She locked her eyes onto mine. “Are you sure?” Yes. Go, do something for yourself for once. I nodded with a grin. “Because if it’s—” “I’m sure, my Cara.” We hugged and jumped around like demented harpies—if harpies were happy beings—and jumped