Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

I could lie. I considered it. But my blood and fingerprints were everywhere. The police would find me. “Poppy

  Fields.”

  There it was—the pause of recognition. When your mother was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, people knew your name. “I’m tracing the landline now, Ms. Fields. Help is on the way. Can you tell me what happened?” The operator was trained to keep me talking. I knew that. I'd seen it on one of those true crime shows.

  “I woke up and he was like this.” Beyond that, everything —the previous night, how we'd come to this place, what we’d done—was lost in a dense fog.

  The tequila bottle shook its self-righteous head. No one made you drink me.

  “Officers will arrive in approximately two minutes. Can you let them in?”

  “Yes.” I hauled myself out of the chair. My head objected.

  Strongly. How was it possible to hurt this much?

  “Stay on the line with me, Ms. Fields.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your help.” I put the receiver back in its cradle and crossed the bedroom. The door opened onto a hallway filled with light. Wincing at the brightness, I made my way to the stairs. My hand closed around the bannister—clutched around the bannister. A wave of dizziness swept through me. I would not throw up. Would not.

  The police were coming. I had to open the door.

  Except the door at the bottom of the stairs already stood ajar, allowing a slice of sunlight to cut across the floor, sharp as the pieces of the broken crystal on the bedroom floor.

  I collapsed onto the bottom step and looked around. I knew where I was—Jake’s friend’s house. I rested my throbbing head in my hands. Jake would be all right. He had to be. Our story couldn’t end this way. Jake being dead wasn’t part of a screwball comedy. Jake being dead was tragic.

  “Ma'am?”

  I lifted my head.

  A police officer in a dark blue uniform stared at me. “Are you all right, ma'am?” His concern sounded genuine.

  “Jake’s upstairs.” I gripped the bannister and pulled myself to standing. “This way.”

  A second police officer entered the foyer. This one regarded me with narrowed eyes, his gaze traveling from my bare feet to the barely-there length of my dress. The corner of his upper lip curled.

  I read his nametag. Officer Crane.

  How dare he pass judgment? It wasn't like I was a ditsy party girl who drank too much and spent the night with men I shouldn’t. Well, not usually. And it wasn’t like Jake was a one-night stand. He was an ex I’d hooked up with. Maybe. Why couldn’t I remember?

  “This way.” I led the police officers up the stairs to the master bedroom. “In there.”

  They pushed past me, surveyed the bedroom (tangled sheets, broken crystal, and bloodied floor), and approached the bed. “Sir?”

  “Is he all right?” He wasn’t. But pretending felt better than the truth.

  Officer Crane ignored me. “Sir?” Jake didn't answer.

  The police officer poked Jake in the shoulder and got no response (I could have told him poking wouldn’t work). Then Officer Crane turned on the bedside lamp and took a good look at the man in the bed. The color leached out of Officer Crane’s face.

  What? What was wrong? I stepped inside the bedroom.

  The police officers didn't seem to notice me. Their gazes were fixed on the man in the bed.

  Officer Crane looked up, spearing me with a glare. “What kind of drugs did you take?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t take any drugs.”

  “What kind did he take?” His lip curled until it kissed his nose.

  “He didn’t.” That I knew of. “He didn’t.”

  He snorted. “We’ll see what an autopsy says about that.”

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