by Nic Joseph
“Did you leave your apartment at any time tonight?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“I know you had guests coming and going. But did you leave your apartment? Either through this back door or the front?”
Emma frowned, standing up and walking closer to the back door where Claire was standing. “No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I’m just trying to figure out how someone might have gotten into the building and attacked Mrs. Brighton.”
“I thought they said the back door was broken into.”
“It was,” Claire said. “But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that the first and most obvious answer is not always the right one. I just want to make sure there’s no other way the person who did this could’ve gotten in.”
“Wait,” Emma said, the frown on her face deepening. “Are you saying…you think someone came in through the back porch, walked through my apartment while I was sleeping, and…” She trailed off, her voice catching, and she put a hand on her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I’m not saying that happened,” Claire said. “I’m just trying to rule out all possibilities.”
Emma swallowed and then shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “A few people went out to smoke after dinner. When they came back in, I locked the door from the inside. I remember it.”
“One more question,” Claire said. “What was Beverly’s relationship with her husband like? Any problems you know of?”
“With Andrew?” Emma asked incredulously. “No, absolutely not. He adores her. He would never…” She shook her head.
“Is there anyone else you know who might have had a problem with Beverly?”
Emma hesitated, and Claire took a step forward.
“Any information you have is helpful, Ms. Bentley.”
“Well, she did have a little…” She shook her head and looked down at her hands. “I shouldn’t.”
“Please, Mrs. Bentley.”
She sighed and looked up. “Look, I don’t think it means anything, so I probably shouldn’t even bring it up, but she did have a little issue with Patrick a couple of months ago.”
“Patrick?”
“My sister’s boyfriend.”
“Oh yes,” Claire said, nodding. “What do you mean, ‘an issue’?”
Emma’s shoulders slumped. “Patrick does some work in the building. He does odd jobs here and there. In April, Bev said that she had some stuff that went missing one afternoon when he was in her apartment working on her ceiling fan.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“A necklace she got from her grandmother and a pair of earrings.”
“He denied it?”
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “But Patrick has a bit of a temper. He blew up at her once at another get-together. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it.”
“Did you see them interact tonight?”
Emma stared at Claire and bit her bottom lip. “No,” she said. “Look, there are a lot of things I could tell you about my sister’s boyfriend that aren’t really relevant to what happened to tonight. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he could’ve done that to Beverly,” she said. “But I will say that he has a temper, especially when it comes to issues having to do with money. I’ve seen it with my sister. He’s a bad influence on her.”
“Okay,” Claire said. “Thanks for being so candid. I think your sister is still out in the living room. I’m going to go grab a few moments with her.”
Emma nodded and followed her out of the kitchen. The apartment looked exactly the way a Gold Coast apartment should look: soft, tan furniture with black accents and well-placed, minimalist art that gave the room a museum-like feel. The room was slightly perfumed, with the smell of lavender or jasmine that didn’t seem to have come out of a can or candle. The air in the room felt expensive.
As they walked into the living room, they both looked up as an investigator near the couch bent over to pick something up, a frown on her face.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
The woman stood up and lifted a woman’s shoe in the air. It was a red high-heeled pump with a delicate gold buckle at the heel.
Claire walked over to the couch and leaned closer, examining the shoe. From a distance, it had looked well-made and expensive, but from here, she could see that the sole was made of cheap fake leather, and the shoe was fraying near the heel. She was no expert, but she would bet that the pair hadn’t cost more than thirty bucks.
“Does this belong to you?” Claire asked, turning back to look at Emma Bentley.
Emma scrunched her face and shook her head. A moment later, her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s Chris’s shoe!” she said with a slight grimace. “Sorry. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. There was one more guest tonight, a friend of mine named Chris. She’s an artist.”
Claire frowned. “Okay,” she said slowly. “And what time did she leave?”
Emma scrunched up her face. “It had to be around twelve thirty. It was before you left, right, Meggie?”
Claire looked over to see a petite woman with bright-pink hair sitting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap.
Meggie nodded. “Yeah, me and Patrick were the last ones here.”
Claire tried not to show her impatience. “Anyone else you’re missing? Anyone else here tonight?”
“Besides the catering crew, no.”
“There was a catering team?”
“Just two people,” she said. “From Daphne’s in Lincolnwood. I can give you their number if you’d like. But they left right after dinner ended, so I don’t think they’ll be of much help.” She paused and looked at the shoe, which was being placed in an evidence bag. “I can’t imagine how Chris could’ve left her shoe here.”
Meggie laughed, a rough, humorless sound that seemed odd for someone with bright-pink hair. “I can,” she said. “Did you see that woman? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone drink so much in my entire life. I’m surprised she managed to take her head home with her, let alone her shoes. Maybe that’ll teach you about hiring random strangers you meet on the street.”
“Random strangers?” Claire asked, looking back and forth between the two women. “On the street? What are you talking about?”
“She is not a random stranger,” Emma said with a sigh. “She’s an artist who’s hopefully going to be doing some work for us for the fashion show.”
“Who you literally met five days ago,” Meggie said.
Claire walked over to the couch and sat down next to Meggie. “I’ll need her information too. Did she interact with Mrs. Brighton very much tonight?”
“Not that I noticed,” Emma said. “Oh, and I don’t actually have her info.”
Claire and Meggie responded at the same time.
“What?”
“Why not?”
Emma shrugged. “I gave her my number at the park the other day, and she was supposed to text me so that I had hers, but she never did. And she already knew where I lived, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Claire frowned. “Okay,” she said. “Before I leave tonight, I need you to tell me absolutely everything you can remember about this artist named Chris.”
Chapter 8
Paula
Four days before
Greenway Field is a massive, modern concert-and-event venue twenty-three miles south of Chicago in an otherwise dusty town called Prairie Hills. I’d been there once before when I had won tickets on the radio to the station’s annual Summer Soul Fest, and I’d dragged Vanessa along with me.
This was different. As we pulled into the congested parking lot, Vanessa cursed out loud and leaned forward, peering at the woman in bright yellow who was directing the carloads of eager fans.
“Where the hell does she want me to go?” she asked, squinting at the woman. “She is literally pointing in both directions!”
“That’s the universal sign for it’s up to you, Mom,” Vanessa’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Jen, said from the back seat.
I turned my head to look at her and smiled as she rolled her eyes.
For a woman with very few filters, Vanessa tended to drive like a student driver, something Jen constantly gave her grief about.
Releasing her grip from the ten and two positions, Vanessa chose the aisle on the right and turned in to find a space. We parked and began the trek across the parking lot, which was really just a big, open field with some ropes that added little order to the chaos. Around us, hordes of people shuffled along toward the structure that loomed in front of us with the promise of one thing only—hours of pure pop fun/torture, depending on why you were there. Groups of teenage girls squealed in delight as parents walked along behind them like zombies. Not for the first time, I wondered what I was doing there.
I’d been toying around with the idea of asking for a reward ever since Vanessa had told me about the concert tickets. It seemed ridiculous, yet there was a part of me that couldn’t shake it, couldn’t help but wonder what he’d say if I just asked.
I’d seen them that night.
I knew what he’d done, and how much he didn’t want his wife to know.
And the phone was my evidence.
As we walked through security, I was surprised to see that the excitement on Vanessa’s face seemed to rival that of her daughter. I shouldn’t have been so surprised after her reaction in the bathroom when I told her about Ryan Hooks or when we found his phone in the trunk of my car. I had been shocked when she told me about the tickets, but I was a little excited too. I knew I shouldn’t be. He was a celebrity who was cheating on his wife. Of course, he’d flirted with me. He’d probably flirt with a spoon, if the circumstances were right.
Still, I wanted to see him again, wanted to be in the same room with him, and, for some strange reason I couldn’t explain, wanted him to know that I knew.
I knew something no one else in the entire auditorium knew except him.
We had a secret.
Twenty minutes later, we were settled in our seats in the second balcony. They weren’t quite nosebleeds, but we’d be doing most of our watching on the jumbo screens. The opening acts were a blur—a group of four girls shaking what their mamas hadn’t quite given them yet, and then a young boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, crooning about the one who got away. I turned to Vanessa.
“What got away, his video game remote?”
She laughed, and Jen shot us a look, one that said we didn’t deserve to be there if we didn’t take it more seriously.
There was an intermission of about twenty minutes after the second opening act. The dim lights came up, and groups of teenage girls linked arms in search of the bathroom or snacks.
Jen was on social media with her friends.
Vanessa leaned over and smiled. “What do you think these girls would do if they found out you had Ryan Hooks’s cell phone in your purse right now?” she asked. “Think they’d mob you?”
“Probably,” I said, looking around nervously. “And don’t say that so loud.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like they’d be able to get into it, since it’s locked.”
“You think that would stop me from getting mobbed?”
“No, you’re probably right.” She smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have it back, though. Who knows what’s on it?”
I frowned. “Have it back?”
She turned to me. “Well, yeah, isn’t that why you brought it? I thought you were going to give it back and maybe even see about that big ole reward,” she said.
I laughed nervously. “That was just a joke,” I said. “Besides, what are we going to do, wait outside his tour bus?”
“Nah, we’ll get backstage.”
She said it so simply and so confidently that I laughed. I was about to respond when there was a loud crashing sound, and then the lights in the arena began to shut off, one area at a time, in perfect rhythm with a slow and steady drumbeat. Immediately, the crowd erupted in screams. I looked over at Vanessa, but she’d turned back to the stage in excitement, her face a mirror image of her daughter’s.
Here we go.
Lights appeared on the stage, and there were silhouettes of four band members. The crowd went even wilder. The band started to play, and the lights came on slowly. The melody was familiar, something I’d heard on the radio while driving at night. Not the song I’d heard with Lotti but something else. I couldn’t help but sway with the crowd. It went on for a few minutes, and then a few more, and just as the crowd began to get weary, there was another cymbal crash, and I heard a voice.
“Chicago, are y’all ready?”
Deep, buttery, and warm.
Lotti.
The entire room exploded, but apparently, it wasn’t enough.
“I don’t think you are, so let me ask again. Chicago, are you ready?”
The screams were so loud that I actually had to put my hands over my ears for a moment to block out the noise. My breath caught in my chest as we all waited, the anticipation of simply seeing another human being much higher than it should be.
And then, Ryan Hooks wiggled out onto the stage.
It was the best way to describe the gyrating motion as he slithered out in front of the crowd of screaming, mostly teenage fans. Vanessa and Jen actually clutched each other, and I wondered what could make it okay for a thirty-six-year-old woman and her thirteen-year-old daughter to be losing their minds over the same man.
He danced to the center of the stage, lifted his hands high over his head, and clapped them twice.
“One, two, three, four!”
The song that started was another one I’d heard before. I didn’t know the name, but I’d heard it enough times to know most of the words, and as he started, I joined the chorus of people singing along with him.
When it finished, Ryan stared out at the crowd for a few moments, soaking in the screams. Adjusting his earpiece, he yelled out, “What’s up, Chicago?”
The crowd exploded again.
“I want to let you know—and believe me, I don’t say this everywhere I go—I am so excited to be here in Chicago. It’s one of my favorite cities in the world, and not just because the audience is always so good-looking!”
The crowd erupted again, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
“Nice one,” Vanessa said to me, and I laughed.
Hooks talked for a few minutes, almost every other line stopping to allow for more screams. Finally, he clapped his hands again and launched into another song, and then another. For a while, I was transported. I forgot about the phone, Keith, and everything else besides the music and the crowd and the excitement of sharing the experience with a concert hall full of strangers.
I was having fun.
I felt a tap on my arm, and then Vanessa leaned closed to me. “Be right back,” she said.
I nodded. “Bathroom?”
She shook her head and winked. “Nope.”
She slid past me and walked out of the aisle.
Jen moved closer to me. “She’s trying to get us backstage, you know,” she said.
I smiled and nodded.
Jen shrugged. “Hope it works.”
I smiled again, surprised at how perceptive and composed Jen was for her age.
As Ryan Hooks continued to belt out song after song, I felt that he was looking through the crowds directly at me. I knew that it was impossible, but I watched him from our balcony and imagined that he could see me, swaying along in the background.
What the hell are you doing here, Paula?
As I listened to the next co
uple of songs, I stepped outside of myself and watched me, standing there swaying back and forth with Ryan’s cell phone in my purse.
Like a creep. I’d officially crossed the line of pathetic. I’d once read a story about a fan who’d stolen a celebrity’s burger off his plate at a restaurant, right after he’d taken a bite, and I remembered thinking it was an incredibly low moment for that fan.
I was just a step or two above the burger thief.
I’d take the phone back home and sell it online like I’d planned to. Ryan probably had another one by now anyway. The phone would be wiped clean and sold again. I would make a few bucks and treat the whole experience as a fun dinner party story to tell when the mood hit me.
That’s what I would do.
But then, as if she could sense what I was thinking, Vanessa was back at my side, placing her hand on my back as she slid into the aisle next to her daughter. Even with the loud music and cheering fans, I heard Jen’s squeal as her mother said something to her and then turned back to me.
“Wow, that’s still as fun as it used to be,” she said.
“What did you do?”
She winked and looked back at the stage for a moment, then lifted her hands high above her head and screamed.
“We love you, Ryan!”
It was drowned out in the roar of the crowd. She turned and smiled.
“We’re in. After the show, we’re going to see a cutie named Brien, with an e, and he’s going to let us backstage.”
“What?” I asked as a drumbeat started up for one of the final songs. “How did you—”
Vanessa shook her head and raised a hand.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” she said, then she took a peek over her shoulder. “But no, really, I’ll tell you later.”
• • •
When the lights finally came on, the massive crowds began to stream out of the auditorium. We grabbed our things and followed Vanessa as she moved out of the aisle and toward the exits.
“This way,” she said.
