by Nic Joseph
I don’t know what I expected to find—maybe a top-secret app called For Celebrity Eyes Only—but there was nothing out of the norm.
It was just a phone.
Only it was so much more than that. I swiped back to the home screen and let my eyes drop down to the icon for Messages. I ignored the slight trace of guilt that rushed over me as I clicked on it and watched as a list of names popped up. There was Tiff, Mom, and a long list of other names. I opened a few threads, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
His mother had asked if he was going to make Gary’s wedding in October.
He’d texted someone named Sal a GIF of a penguin falling over.
This was what celebrities did with their time?
Then I saw it.
A conversation thread with someone simply named “M.”
I said it out loud in the dark room, and the realization made my pulse quicken.
Em.
Jackpot.
Yesterday, 6:17 p.m.
M: What time u coming over?
Ryan: Don’t know, late. All clear?
M: Yeah, tonight’s good. Miss u. Sorry about yesterday.
Ryan: It’s ok. Miss u too.
July 28, 9:06 p.m.
Ryan: I get into town Thursday night. Wanna see you.
M: Can’t always get what we want ;)
Ryan: I tend to.
M: Wow, lol. Think that attitude is going to work?
Ryan: I do.
Ryan: Am I right?
9:15 p.m.
Ryan: Ruh roh.
Ryan: Hello?
Ryan: #toomuchconfidencefail?
M: LOL
M: Almost.
March 4, 2:39 a.m.
Ryan: U up?
Ryan: Sorry
M: No, I am. Had a rough day.
Ryan: I’m sorry. Want to talk?
M: Are you at home?
Ryan: Yeah. But Tiff’s not. Now okay?
M: Yeah, call me.
March 4, 4:03 a.m.
M: I don’t know what I would do without you. Good night.
Ryan: Love you.
My heart was pounding as I pushed the button to return to the home screen.
Love you?
I damn sure hadn’t expected that. Their relationship was cuter, funnier, more comfortable than I’d imagined it would be.
This was no celebrity hookup.
But that didn’t change anything.
I had to do what I had to do.
With shaky fingers, I opened Twitter, which was already logged into his account. He wasn’t following me back, so I couldn’t message him directly from my own account, but maybe…
I opened his messages and began typing in his own username.
@RyanHooksOfficial.
The message populated his name in the to field, and I let out a deep breath.
I could send a message from Ryan to Ryan.
I just had to pray he checked it on his computer, since he certainly wouldn’t be doing so on his phone.
I thought for a moment and then typed out a short note.
@RyanHooksOfficial: 115. Makes sense.
Before I could stop myself, I pressed Send.
I immediately pushed the button at the top of the screen to turn it off before tossing the phone into my purse.
I walked back into the bedroom to lie down, but I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. Around 4:00 a.m., I closed my eyes for what felt like nothing more than a long blink, but when I opened them, it was light outside. I’d underestimated how much of a toll the previous day had taken on me.
I got dressed and grabbed my purse before heading out. I completed a couple of rides, driving aimlessly, the information I’d read last night swirling in my mind. There was a part of me that knew the whole thing was ridiculous—I could never pull something like this off—but there was another part of me that knew I had to try.
We were running out of options, and this one had dropped itself into my back seat like a present.
I headed toward the Gold Coast. I picked up a few rides along the way, mostly as a distraction, but once I was downtown, I shut off the app. Soon, I was circling the blocks, moving closer and closer to the apartment building on Oak. As I drove past the dog park, I looked quickly for any signs of Emma and her puppy, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Of course they’re not there, Paula.
Go home.
I continued down the block before turning to head back to the heart of downtown. I’d drive for another hour or so and then head home. I was in the left turn lane, waiting for a large crowd of people to cross the street, when something caught my eye.
It was a store, halfway down the block, with a large, red awning and a single word printed in curly letters.
Klein’s.
I frowned and leaned forward to see what street I was on.
Halsted.
I thought back to the day I’d seen Emma outside the dog park as she spoke to someone on the phone.
“We’re going to be at Klein’s on Halsted.”
It was the boutique she’d been telling someone about on the phone. I wondered what kind of clothes would pass her muster, and on a whim, I pulled over into a parking space and shut off the car.
As I stepped inside Klein’s, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw how much the clothing fit Emma’s style. There were at least four different versions of the jumper I saw her wearing at the dog park. Everything was modern, clean, and streamlined. Colorful but understated.
I walked around for a bit and finally picked up a scarf.
I’d gone so far as to come in; I had to buy something…
I stepped into line, resigning myself to paying for an item I didn’t need, when I spotted the young couple in front of me. A moment later, I heard the woman speak.
“You can have it shipped to 115 West Oak.”
My jaw dropped, and I stared at their backs. The woman had short, pink hair, and she stood next to a tall, lanky man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear,” I said, trying not to wince. “Did you say you live at 115 West Oak?”
The girl looked back at me with a frown. “Yeah. How come?”
“Oh, it’s a nice building,” I said. “I actually met someone who lives there recently. Her name was Emma.”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she looked over at her friend.
“You know her?” I asked as casually as possible.
“Yeah, we—” the man started.
“She lives above us,” the girl said, and I watched as she gave him a look. “How did you meet her?”
“Oh, just at the dog park nearby,” I said. “She might become a client of mine. I’m an artist, and she said she’s looking for some new work.”
There was a chuckle from the boyfriend. “Of course she did,” he said. The girl was shaking her head at him. “I told you, she doesn’t have anything to do. She’s in that damned dog park every afternoon.”
“Shut up,” the pink-haired girl hissed.
“Am I lying?” he asked. “Tell me where she is every day at four o’clock? Out there with that damned dog.”
I cleared my throat. “Is something wrong?”
I’d taken one acting class in college—an improv comedy class, actually—and I’d been terrible at it. I’d dropped it after two weeks. As I stood there, I wished that I’d stuck with it just a little bit longer; it might have proven useful at a time like this.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have sounded so damned suspicious.
Was I too interested?
Not interested enough?
The girl shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Emma is a friend of ours.”
This time, the boyfriend laughed out loud.
“What?” she asked him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
“I don’t,” he said. “I would’ve said it if I did.”
“Then you shouldn’t keep making noises.”
“It’s just funny to hear you call her your friend…”
I swallowed. I had to push it. “Is there something I should know?” I asked. “I’m pretty careful about taking on new clients.”
The girl locked eyes with me again.
“It’s just no big surprise that she’d want you to paint something for her apartment after meeting her at a park,” she said. “No offense. You seem lovely, and I’m sure you’re very talented, but that’s pretty random. Still, that absolutely sounds like something Emma would do, and God knows she has the money for it.”
There was a bitterness in her voice, which she wasn’t trying too hard to hide. “Just fair warning that Emma is known for being a little bit less than reliable, so I’d make sure you work out an agreement ahead of time,” she said. “Something pretty concrete. Just my two cents. Trust me, I have firsthand experience.”
I wanted to learn as much as I could. Every single detail seemed to count. If I could just find something, anything, I could go back to Hooks. I cleared my throat and tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible. “Are you saying she’s someone I shouldn’t work with?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m just saying she’s a complicated person. I shouldn’t really go into much more detail than that.”
“What you’re trying to say is that she’s a nutso bitch,” the man said. He turned back to face the clerk who was punching something into the register.
The girl smiled and began to turn back too but stopped and looked back at me.
“Don’t listen to us,” she said. “We’re just being nosy neighbors. If she wants to hire you, I say go for it.”
She turned her back to me, signaling that the conversation was over. I watched them finish up and leave the store before buying my scarf and heading back out to my car.
As I drove away, my phone buzzed, and my breath caught when I saw that I had a new Twitter notification.
@RyanHooksOfficial is now following you!
And a direct message.
Send me your number.
My mouth was dry as I turned the corner and began to head home.
Chapter 11
Claire
The Night in Question
Claire was sitting next to Meggie Bentley on the couch in her sister’s living room. She watched as an investigator bagged up the red shoe and carried it away.
“I need to ask you a few questions about what happened tonight,” Claire said. “Is now a good time?”
With her bright-pink hair and small frame, the only clue that she was related to the tall, slender woman whom Claire had interviewed just moments earlier was the sparkle in her bright-green eyes. Meggie’s gaze darted back and forth between the detective in front of her and her sister, who walked by and toward the short hallway that led to her bedroom.
“Okay,” Meggie said slowly, crossing her hands in her lap. Where her sister had trembled with every breath and seemed unable to process what was happening, Meggie was calm, quiet, and collected. “What is it that you want to know?”
“You’re the one who found Mrs. Brighton’s body, yes?” Claire asked. “With your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Meggie said, and she exhaled through pursed lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get that image out of my mind.”
“Where is your boyfriend now?”
“Patrick?” Meggie asked. “He’s downstairs in our apartment. Emma asked me to come upstairs.”
“Okay,” Claire said. “Before I get into what happened tonight, can you tell me a little bit about your relationship with Mrs. Brighton?”
“With Bev?” Meggie asked. She spread her hands in front of her and took a quick glance at the kitchen. “I didn’t have much of one. She was more Emma’s friend, not mine.”
“But she also was handling some of the legal work for your sister’s clothing company, right? Have you been working with her on that?”
Claire tended to notice the little things, like the way people’s voices changed when they were hiding something. Meggie stayed perfectly still for the most part, but her jaw clenched as she searched for the right response.
“Yes, I’m involved in the clothing line, since I’m the one who designs the clothes,” she snapped, and then she put a hand on her chest. She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. I’m just used to her doing things like that.”
“Like what?” Claire asked.
“Like taking credit for things that she shouldn’t.”
Claire held the woman’s eye for a moment before continuing. “Your sister owns the building, yes? How long have you lived here?”
“I moved in about two years ago,” Meggie said.
“And your boyfriend?” Claire asked. “When did he move in with you?”
“Two years ago,” Meggie repeated with a frown. “We’ve been together for four.”
Claire nodded. “Tell me about what happened when you got home. What time was it?”
“About two thirty,” she said. “Patrick and I decided to take a walk after the party and go down to Boxer’s over on Walton. We left there at about two fifteen and came back home.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?” Claire asked.
“Sure, the bartender, Kerry. She knows us, and she was there. Anyway, when we walked in, we saw the bloodstains on the wall and carpet and began walking upstairs. It was so out of place. Emma has this carpet cleaned every two weeks or something.” Meggie shuddered, looking down at her hands. “You know how you just know something bad has happened? That’s what I felt in my chest. But we kept walking up, because we knew the blood had to come from somewhere, and then we were almost up to the third floor when we saw her…” She stopped talking and then shook her head as if to get rid of the image.
“Did you see anyone else in the hallway? Or outside the building as you were walking inside?”
“No,” Meggie said, shaking her head again. “There was no one.”
“I need you to think about this carefully. The door to Beverly’s apartment. Was it open?”
Meggie nodded. “It was. Not a lot. Just a crack. But I remember thinking that I didn’t know what was inside. I was so scared. We ran back down into the apartment and closed the door before calling the cops.”
Claire leaned forward. “We’re asking all the tenants if we can swab their apartment for any evidence. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, have at it,” Meggie said, and Claire got the sense that she was working hard at seeming unconcerned. Meggie dropped back against the seat cushion. “We don’t have anything to hide. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. If there’s anyone you want to check out, it would be Beverly’s husband, Andrew. He’s a mess of a person, and honestly, I wouldn’t put something like this past him.”
“That’s a strong accusation,” Claire said. “What makes you say that?”
“First, he was wasted out of his mind tonight. He even got into it with Patrick at the dinner.”
“About what?”
“Something about this real estate property they’ve been talking about investing in. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Patrick. I think it’s a bad idea, and Andrew’s behavior tonight just proves it.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I think he has something of a drinking problem, to be honest. He’s always really nice and calm on the surface, but when he drinks…it’s a different story.”
“Did you see him have any words with his wife?”
“No, but then again, he never did. She treated him like a sack of crap, and he always just took it. Didn’t help that she held the purse str
ings in that relationship, and she talked pretty openly about their prenup.” Meggie shrugged. “Maybe good old Andrew had one too many and finally cracked.”
Chapter 12
Paula
Three days before
Send me your number.
I’d been checking my phone like a madwoman since Ryan had messaged me. I’d sent him the number right away, but then…nothing. I considered writing him again, but it seemed that the less information I put out publicly, the better.
So I waited.
I waited, and I read.
January 16, 11:13 a.m.
M: I’m going to be in New York next week for work. Any chance you can be there too?
Ryan: What days?
M: Thurs–Sat
Ryan: Pretty sure I was invited to a release party that falls during those exact dates, but not sure I can make it. It’ll all depend…
M: Oh ok. On what?
Ryan: If you’ll be packing that little lace thing I bought you.
M:
M: Can’t wait. My favorite person, in my favorite city in the world.
I put the phone down and felt a familiar twinge of jealously rush through me. Keith and I had spent our honeymoon in New York, and it had been, without question, five of the happiest days of my life. Whenever we fought or argued, I sometimes went back to those days, remembering the carefree, infatuated way we’d roamed the city as we started our lives together.
I wanted that back.
I’d walked into the apartment after leaving Klein’s and, for a reason I couldn’t explain, had decided to change clothes. I pulled on my nicest pair of sweatpants and a tank top and brushed my hair up into a high bun. I grabbed my tube of root cover-up from the medicine cabinet and dabbed it on a few grays, added some concealer, and finally stepped out into the living room to face the afternoon’s biggest challenge.
I moved into the living room and stood in front of Shelby. Keith was at the college again and wouldn’t be home for another three hours. I wasn’t scheduled at the diner that afternoon and could’ve picked up several more rides.
Instead, I was going to take Shelby to a dog park.
