ears like swirling acid. The woman was a viper. A leech. A devil.
I'm so sorry to be the one to break this to you, sweetie cakes, the witch had sniveled into her phone. But your sugar daddy's bit the dust. Gone. Cold. Dead. And you know what you are, you husband-stealing, gold-digging, silicone-implanted little wench? I'll tell you what you are. You're FIRED!!!
Diana withdrew another tissue from the box she'd been carrying around the eerily empty office for the last two hours. She blew.
"He never loved you, you know that?" she muttered, staring daggers at the airbrushed woman in the photograph. "It was me he wanted. He would have divorced you in a heartbeat if his finances hadn't—"
Her words choked on a sob. Close. She'd been so damned close.
And now she had nothing.
Again .
She couldn't stand it. Couldn’t bear for everything that had seemed so promising to go so suddenly, terribly wrong. But the blubbering and the sniveling had to stop, regardless. Her situation was precarious; she needed to focus.
She would not be in Brandon's will, she knew that. And even if she was, he'd have nothing left. The business had bled him out like a stuck pig.
Her stomach gave a lurch.
She grabbed another tissue.
Brandon had been right; it was Gil's fault. His good buddy Gil, who had pretended to help him, then dumped him in his hour of need. Mr. Hollywood-Handsome Gil March had walked away from Brandon—with a fat consulting fee in his pocket—and never once looked back. He was a fraud. A hack. A self-righteous, ungrateful, overstuffed prig.
God, how she hated him.
For more reasons than one. But this time, he would not walk away unscathed.
She'd made sure of that.
A ding sounded from the outer office; the door was opening. Diana wiped hastily at her cheeks, tucked the tissue box back under her arm, and walked through the open doorway and back into the reception area.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice rough as gravel.
The man and woman—at least, Diana thought it was a woman—surveyed her studiously. Cops , she decided immediately. Neither wore a uniform, of course, but the man had that quiet air of authority one usually associated with detectives, while the woman—good God, what a woman; she was huge!—looked like she could take down three drug dealers with one blow. They had come to tell her about Brandon. And to search his office for clues, no doubt.
With a discreet flash of their badges, the detectives solemnly introduced themselves.
"I already know about Brandon," Diana said simply, sniffling. "His wife called a couple hours ago." She moved to her own desk chair and dropped down with a plop. "I've been in a kind of daze, you know?"
The detectives nodded, then exchanged a glance and a gesture. The woman seemed to be in charge, but it was the man, a Detective Peterson, who did the talking. He began as expected with stiff condolences, then moved quickly to the heart of the matter.
"Could you tell me the last time you saw Brandon Lyle, Ms. Saxton?"
Diana sniffled, then reached for another tissue. She really should have planned these answers out already; the truth was hardly neat and tidy. On the other hand, when it came to her relationship with Brandon, why should she lie? To spare his poor, dear little wife the embarrassment?
She blew.
"I was with Brandon all weekend," she answered matter of factly, "at his apartment. The last time I saw him was yesterday morning. He went to work at the office but I didn't go with him. I had an... appointment in Harrisburg, and I didn't get back until late."
"What kind of appointment?" the detective asked. "And exactly when did you return to Pittsburgh?"
Diana sighed. "I had a summons to small claims court," she answered curtly, hoping to avoid further inquiry on that score. It was nobody's business, after all, whether she had or had not keyed the Ferrari of a certain liposuctioned, neurotoxin-injected high school classmate whose head had gotten far too big for her
I'm so sorry to be the one to break this to you, sweetie cakes, the witch had sniveled into her phone. But your sugar daddy's bit the dust. Gone. Cold. Dead. And you know what you are, you husband-stealing, gold-digging, silicone-implanted little wench? I'll tell you what you are. You're FIRED!!!
Diana withdrew another tissue from the box she'd been carrying around the eerily empty office for the last two hours. She blew.
"He never loved you, you know that?" she muttered, staring daggers at the airbrushed woman in the photograph. "It was me he wanted. He would have divorced you in a heartbeat if his finances hadn't—"
Her words choked on a sob. Close. She'd been so damned close.
And now she had nothing.
Again .
She couldn't stand it. Couldn’t bear for everything that had seemed so promising to go so suddenly, terribly wrong. But the blubbering and the sniveling had to stop, regardless. Her situation was precarious; she needed to focus.
She would not be in Brandon's will, she knew that. And even if she was, he'd have nothing left. The business had bled him out like a stuck pig.
Her stomach gave a lurch.
She grabbed another tissue.
Brandon had been right; it was Gil's fault. His good buddy Gil, who had pretended to help him, then dumped him in his hour of need. Mr. Hollywood-Handsome Gil March had walked away from Brandon—with a fat consulting fee in his pocket—and never once looked back. He was a fraud. A hack. A self-righteous, ungrateful, overstuffed prig.
God, how she hated him.
For more reasons than one. But this time, he would not walk away unscathed.
She'd made sure of that.
A ding sounded from the outer office; the door was opening. Diana wiped hastily at her cheeks, tucked the tissue box back under her arm, and walked through the open doorway and back into the reception area.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice rough as gravel.
The man and woman—at least, Diana thought it was a woman—surveyed her studiously. Cops , she decided immediately. Neither wore a uniform, of course, but the man had that quiet air of authority one usually associated with detectives, while the woman—good God, what a woman; she was huge!—looked like she could take down three drug dealers with one blow. They had come to tell her about Brandon. And to search his office for clues, no doubt.
With a discreet flash of their badges, the detectives solemnly introduced themselves.
"I already know about Brandon," Diana said simply, sniffling. "His wife called a couple hours ago." She moved to her own desk chair and dropped down with a plop. "I've been in a kind of daze, you know?"
The detectives nodded, then exchanged a glance and a gesture. The woman seemed to be in charge, but it was the man, a Detective Peterson, who did the talking. He began as expected with stiff condolences, then moved quickly to the heart of the matter.
"Could you tell me the last time you saw Brandon Lyle, Ms. Saxton?"
Diana sniffled, then reached for another tissue. She really should have planned these answers out already; the truth was hardly neat and tidy. On the other hand, when it came to her relationship with Brandon, why should she lie? To spare his poor, dear little wife the embarrassment?
She blew.
"I was with Brandon all weekend," she answered matter of factly, "at his apartment. The last time I saw him was yesterday morning. He went to work at the office but I didn't go with him. I had an... appointment in Harrisburg, and I didn't get back until late."
"What kind of appointment?" the detective asked. "And exactly when did you return to Pittsburgh?"
Diana sighed. "I had a summons to small claims court," she answered curtly, hoping to avoid further inquiry on that score. It was nobody's business, after all, whether she had or had not keyed the Ferrari of a certain liposuctioned, neurotoxin-injected high school classmate whose head had gotten far too big for her
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