“You want me to call in your Major Crimes Unit out of Salem?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” The four of them spoke at once.

The sheriff twisted his lips. “Usually I’d make a case for my detectives right now. But this one’s personal for all of you, right?”

Nods.

“I’d want every available resource on it, too,” he sighed. “And I know OSP has a lot more resources than we do.”

“We might go higher,” said Ray.

“I would,” said the sheriff. “If that was my boss and friend, I wouldn’t stop at OSP. No offense,” he said quickly.

All of them paused as the young Lincoln City cop stopped outside their circle and asked a question.

Mason fully turned, facing the young cop. “What’d you say?”

The cop lifted his chin, looking from the sheriff to Mason. “I asked what’s the deal with the Pinhead mask?”

“Pinhead?” Mason repeated. Brief clips of horror films flooded his memory. He’d never watched the movies, but his son Jake had been an addict. He moved over to where Denny’s body quietly lay, waiting for the county crime scene techs to start their processing.

Mason stared at the mask that still covered Denny’s face. The Lincoln City cop had wanted to remove it when he’d first arrived, but the Portland detectives wouldn’t let him touch it.

Mason recognized the character. He’d seen a parade of pop culture horror icons on the TV screen as he passed through the family room where Jake had watched movies for hours on end. He had no idea which movie franchise Pinhead belonged to, but knew it’d been one of Jake’s favorites. The mask on Denny’s face was ill-fitting, gathered and gapped in several places, which explained why he hadn’t recognized it as a mask. It’d looked like a lumpy piece of rubber with lines and pins.

He exchanged a glance with Ray, who slowly shook his head as shock crossed his face.

“From the horror movies?” asked Steve. “I didn’t realize that it actually was a mask. I thought it was just a jumbled mess.”

“What’s it mean?” asked the sheriff.

“Hell if I know,” said Mason.

2

Ava McLane pulled open the door of the tiny shop in downtown Lake Oswego. The bells on the door jangled softly, and she stepped into a space managed by someone with much better decorating taste than herself. She was instantly jealous. The owner had a passion for the beachy home decor that made Ava’s blood pressure lower and stress flow out of her limbs. Everywhere she looked she saw something she wanted . . . or possibly needed. Pale distressed wood furniture, striking ocean photos, and beach glass in icy blue and green shades that relaxed her brain. She picked up a mesh bag of the glass, running her thumb over the water-smoothed pieces, imagining it in a clear bowl on her fireplace mantel.

She had a purpose in visiting the store. Looking around, she spotted several paintings on a wall near the back of the shop. She made her way through the store, trying not to be distracted by a fabulous weathered chest of drawers that belonged in a home on Martha’s Vineyard. She stopped in front of the first watercolor and understood why the owner had featured the artwork.

The paintings of coastlines were striking. Bleak and desolate but deeply engaging in their shades and depth. The loneliness portrayed by the artist’s strokes took her breath away. Am I the only one who sees it? Or did everyone experience the emptiness?

She stared at the small placard featuring the artist’s name. Jayne McLane.

You finally did it.

It wasn’t much of an art show, but pride swept through Ava.

I hope this helps you continue to heal.

Ava exchanged one email a week with her twin, knowing her every word would be scrutinized by a counselor before Jayne ever read it. Jayne had been incredibly upbeat and proud of her showing in the home decor shop. Needing to confirm that Jayne wasn’t exaggerating, Ava had hunted down the small notice in the local newspaper.

Art show. Jayne McLane’s beach watercolors. 10 to 2 p.m. Free coffee and cookies.

She’d told Jayne she’d go, assuming her twin wouldn’t be allowed to leave her rehab center. Jayne’s doctors were taking her recovery slowly and carefully. Once the gashes on her wrists had healed, they’d encouraged her passion for art, and the result had been these seven paintings.

“These are great,” said a male voice beside her. Ava turned to see a man in his sixties smiling at her. “I love the beach.”

“Me, too.”

He seemed harmless, but Ava wasn’t in a chatty mood. She turned her attention back to the art, realizing the one with the rich teal shades would be perfect in her freshly remodeled dining room.

“Know the artist?” her fellow art admirer asked.

“Not really,” she hedged.

He laughed. “I just wondered if she was local.”

“You’d have to ask the manager,” Ava said, unwilling to talk about her twin. Would Jayne be considered local? In the past decade, had she ever called a city her home?

He held out his hand. “I’m David.”

“Ava.” Please don’t hit on me. He was too old for her taste.

“I think I’ll buy that one.” He pointed at the one she’d wanted for her dining room. She bit her lip, holding back her disappointment, and he narrowed his gray eyebrows. “Unless you were going to? You were here first.”

She swallowed. “I was considering that one,” she admitted. At another time she would have let him buy the painting since he’d spoken first, but she’d already pictured it in her home and knew it was perfect.