home. She left a note saying she was going to L.A. to find work as an actress.
What she’d found was drugs.
And Eric.
“Look, Gill. Make yourself some tea or something. Of course we can go to a movie. I’m pretty tied up this week. How about one night next week?” Tomorrow, her cousin would probably forget they’d ever had this conversation.
Poor Gillian—when she wasn’t driving Alex insane, she was pathetic. When they’d been younger, Alex had actually been sort of jealous of her gorgeous, sexually confident, utterly wild cousin. Now that she’d outgrown her own insecurities and come into the woman she was meant to be, she no longer felt intimidated by the easy sexuality of her cousin. Her lack of discipline and her chemical dependencies had messed up her life so badly that now Alex felt sorry for her.
“Can I come over tonight? I need to talk to you about something.”
Right. They had decisions to make about the estate and she’d cry some more about Eric. But not tonight. Alex wasn’t up to it. “I’m really beat. I had a rough day. Can we make it tomorrow?”
There was a pause, and a soft, “Sure.” The one word contained a touch of hurt, and guilt mixed with the frustration that gushed from deep inside.
When they ended the call, she picked up the phone again and called the non-emergency police line. It wasn’t quite five and Raeanne was still at her desk. “Can you get Tom to call me when he gets a minute?”
“Oh, my gosh. He’s pretty busy with the murder investigation right now.”
Raeanne was as excited as a gossip columnist in the middle of a juicy scandal. “You poor thing. I couldn’t believe it was you who found the dead body!”
“Yes. It was me.” And she really didn’t want to gossip about her discovery. “Ask Tom to call my cell number when he gets time.”
Having done her duty, she pulled out her mat and did an hour of yoga stretches to bring peace and serenity. It was an abject failure, but she couldn’t blame the yoga. She didn’t think much short of temporary amnesia could bring peace and serenity tonight.
The walls of her apartment were closing in on her. She needed to do something to take her mind off her troubles. If she lived in a big city, she’d have more friends her own age and a whole lot more things to do and places to go. Instead, for fun and excitement, she called Myrna, the circulation clerk, to tell her not to come in tomorrow and spent fifteen minutes talking about the murder.
That done, she couldn’t relax enough for that hot bath she’d promised herself. She was too jumpy yet. She pulled up Jack Johnson and Adele on her iPod and decided to rearrange the linen closet. But she discovered, on opening the door, that it was perfectly ordered. She’d cleaned it out only a couple of weeks ago.
Her next stop was the kitchen. She was still full from lunch, so she poured herself a glass of milk and washed an apple, then peeled it in one long, tidy swirl and sliced the fruit into four precise quadrants which she placed on a plate. It wasn’t really enough for a balanced meal, so she cut four slices of cheese and buttered a slice of whole wheat bread.
A meal didn’t have to be large, but she liked to think it contained all the required food groups.
While she ate at her kitchen table, using a pretty blue linen napkin and a matching place mat—because she was also a big believer that a single woman needn’t live like a slob—she flicked on the TV to catch the news.
The murder was, predictably, the top story. Tom was interviewed, looking solid and impassive and giving out no information but that an unidentified man had been found dead in the library. An investigation was under way.
He didn’t comment on anything, right down to who had discovered the body, for which she was thankful. There was the usual plea for anyone with information to come forward. The camera crew had caught the body being hauled away. A dark lump tied to a stretcher.
Tidying her
What she’d found was drugs.
And Eric.
“Look, Gill. Make yourself some tea or something. Of course we can go to a movie. I’m pretty tied up this week. How about one night next week?” Tomorrow, her cousin would probably forget they’d ever had this conversation.
Poor Gillian—when she wasn’t driving Alex insane, she was pathetic. When they’d been younger, Alex had actually been sort of jealous of her gorgeous, sexually confident, utterly wild cousin. Now that she’d outgrown her own insecurities and come into the woman she was meant to be, she no longer felt intimidated by the easy sexuality of her cousin. Her lack of discipline and her chemical dependencies had messed up her life so badly that now Alex felt sorry for her.
“Can I come over tonight? I need to talk to you about something.”
Right. They had decisions to make about the estate and she’d cry some more about Eric. But not tonight. Alex wasn’t up to it. “I’m really beat. I had a rough day. Can we make it tomorrow?”
There was a pause, and a soft, “Sure.” The one word contained a touch of hurt, and guilt mixed with the frustration that gushed from deep inside.
When they ended the call, she picked up the phone again and called the non-emergency police line. It wasn’t quite five and Raeanne was still at her desk. “Can you get Tom to call me when he gets a minute?”
“Oh, my gosh. He’s pretty busy with the murder investigation right now.”
Raeanne was as excited as a gossip columnist in the middle of a juicy scandal. “You poor thing. I couldn’t believe it was you who found the dead body!”
“Yes. It was me.” And she really didn’t want to gossip about her discovery. “Ask Tom to call my cell number when he gets time.”
Having done her duty, she pulled out her mat and did an hour of yoga stretches to bring peace and serenity. It was an abject failure, but she couldn’t blame the yoga. She didn’t think much short of temporary amnesia could bring peace and serenity tonight.
The walls of her apartment were closing in on her. She needed to do something to take her mind off her troubles. If she lived in a big city, she’d have more friends her own age and a whole lot more things to do and places to go. Instead, for fun and excitement, she called Myrna, the circulation clerk, to tell her not to come in tomorrow and spent fifteen minutes talking about the murder.
That done, she couldn’t relax enough for that hot bath she’d promised herself. She was too jumpy yet. She pulled up Jack Johnson and Adele on her iPod and decided to rearrange the linen closet. But she discovered, on opening the door, that it was perfectly ordered. She’d cleaned it out only a couple of weeks ago.
Her next stop was the kitchen. She was still full from lunch, so she poured herself a glass of milk and washed an apple, then peeled it in one long, tidy swirl and sliced the fruit into four precise quadrants which she placed on a plate. It wasn’t really enough for a balanced meal, so she cut four slices of cheese and buttered a slice of whole wheat bread.
A meal didn’t have to be large, but she liked to think it contained all the required food groups.
While she ate at her kitchen table, using a pretty blue linen napkin and a matching place mat—because she was also a big believer that a single woman needn’t live like a slob—she flicked on the TV to catch the news.
The murder was, predictably, the top story. Tom was interviewed, looking solid and impassive and giving out no information but that an unidentified man had been found dead in the library. An investigation was under way.
He didn’t comment on anything, right down to who had discovered the body, for which she was thankful. There was the usual plea for anyone with information to come forward. The camera crew had caught the body being hauled away. A dark lump tied to a stretcher.
Tidying her
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