“I’m glad you came tonight, so pleased.”
From the way he slurred the words, she knew he’d hit the sauce hard enough that he wouldn’t be thinking about food.
She sucked in her stomach, pulled back her shoulders, praying she didn’t look fat. “Thank you for inviting me. I love Killer Body. I sure hope this works out.”
“And Killer Body loves you.” Icy fingers dug into her left thigh. Mr. Warren didn’t as much as look at her. She knew her spongy flesh felt like mush in his hand and tried to contract the muscle. Tears threatened to spill down her face. Humiliation. That’s what her life was now.
“I could do a good job,” she said. “I’m working really hard.”
“That takes courage, especially considering what you’ve been through.” The fingers softened but stayed locked in the death grip.
“I know I can rebuild my image.”
“Andyour weight. You’re looking trimmer.”
“Killer Body’s really helping,” she lied. He didn’t need to know she’d been visiting another center, paying next to nothing, yet she hadn’t eaten a bag of Milanos for at least a month.
Mr. Warren squeezed her again. “If you work the program, the program will work for you. That line was my idea, you know.”
She wanted to cry. She wanted to eat. Most of all, she just wanted out of here, where she was the laugh of the night.
“It’s very catchy,” she said.
Just then, the French doors opened and the server stepped out.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Bobby, but there’s been a delivery—from Julie Larimore.”
Mr. Warren shot up from his seat. “From Jules? Is she here?”
“No. She had something delivered to you.”
“I knew it. I knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long.” He darted through the door as if she weren’t even there. Tania Marie followed.
A deliveryman stood just inside the door to the main room, holding one of those padded mailers. Whatever she was sending, it couldn’t be much. For some reason, that gave Tania Marie comfort.
The rest of the group continued to laugh and talk, all except for the reporter, who caught sight of what was going on and turned from her conversation with Rochelle.
Mr. Warren grabbed the package from the messenger and directed someone to show him out.
“It’s her handwriting,” he said to Tania Marie. “You see, I told you.” She wasn’t certain he’d told her anything.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Glad she’s all right, honest, Mr. Warren.”
He yanked open the packet, dark eyes glittering with anticipation. At first Tania Marie thought it was a packet of papers, but no. It was fabric of some kind. Black fabric.
“What the hell?”
Mr. Warren gathered the material into his hands, letting the envelope fall away. It was a dress, long and black and split up the side. No, not just split. Ripped. Torn. Somebody had slashed Julie’s Killer Body dress to ribbons.
“No.” Mr. Warren held the dress away from him, and then he had no words left, only his anguished moan filling the now-silent cavern of a room. Then, someone—the reporter—cried out, as well.
Rikki
Seeing that dress, so similar to Lisa’s that it could have been the same one, almost topples me. As everyone in the room rushes toward Bobby Warren like a human wave, I cry out, unable to move.
The next thing I know, someone grabs my arm.
“Are you okay?”
