“Those rooms get direct sun in the afternoon. It makes sense that they’d be hotter, and harder to cool down,” Felice pointed out.
“Parrish must have thought there was more to it than that. She’s got a lot of detailed notes about BTUs and stuff I don’t understand, plus her handwriting is really hard to read.”
Felice finished her burger and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “Let me see it.”
Livvy handed over the notebook and Felice paged through it, shaking her head.
“You’re right. Parrish had serial-killer handwriting. I don’t see how you could read anything in there, but from what you say, there’s nothing in there that would give anyone a motive to kill her.”
Livvy took the notebook back and patted the cardboard cover. “I feel like there are all these little puzzle pieces in here, but I’m missing some big ones. So far, none of it makes sense.”
“You’re not a real detective, Livvy,” Felice said. “Just a girl with this creepy true-crime obsession. Watching every episode ever ofDatelineand listening to all those murdery podcasts don’t make you an expert.”
“I still think we could figure this out,” Livvy insisted. “Didn’t I find the bitch book? You saw how those cops turned Parrish’s room upside down, and they missed it.”
“Weirdo,” Felice said. “Finish your burger, then let’s head back to the dorm.”
CHAPTER 39
Traci gazed at her half-full glass of wine with regret. She’d ordered and drank a second glass after Heather’s departure. She wasn’t sloppy drunk, but she wasn’t cold sober either.
What she was was melancholy, morose even, looking around the now-crowded bar full of lively, much younger customers, talking, laughing, dancing, flirting. How long had it been since she’d had a night like that?
Stop with the pity party,she told herself. She pushed the wineglass across the table and flagged down her server to ask for her check.
She was reminded of those summer nights she and Shannon had spent right here at Pour Willy’s, shamelessly trolling for rich, cute guys who might offer to buy them drinks; guys they’d flirt with, dance with, and yes, occasionally leave with, although Shannon had been much more successful at that than Traci.
Her car was still parked at the chapel, but she knew it would be unwise to drive, buzzed as she was. Instead, she pulled her phone from her purse, tapped the app, and summoned an Uber.
Whelan hadn’t intended to drive that night, but the Braves game was on a rain delay and he’d read the last of the paperback mysteries he’d bought by the bagful at a local thrift store.
He tapped the Uber app on his phone, and by the time he got downstairs to his Tahoe, he had a ride waiting. Fortunately, the pickup spot was two blocks away. Unfortunately, it was Pour Willy’s. Another night he might have declined the fare, but tonight his passenger, someone named Traci, was headed out to the Saint, easily a twenty-dollar ride, and hopefully a decent tip. He accepted the trip.
Whelan pulled up to the curb outside the bar and groaned when he saw two guys, dead drunk and sprawled on the sidewalk with their phones in their hands.
But his mood brightened when an attractive woman, wearing a black dress and heels, nimbly sidestepped the drunks and approached his car. He lowered his window. “Traci?”
She nodded and got into the back seat.
Before pulling away from the curb, he turned to get a look at his passenger. Early forties, nicely put together. “You want a bottle of water or something? It’s awful hot tonight. There’s some in the cooler on the floor there.”
“No thanks,” she murmured, leaning back in the seat. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I just live around the corner,” he said. “You having a good night?”
“Hmm?”
He raised his voice. “I said, hope you’re having a good night.”
She didn’t reply. He was watching her in his rearview mirror. Her eyes were closed, and at first he thought she was dozing, but then he noticed her wiping at the tears flooding down her face. She was weeping.
“Hey, are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
A moment later: “That’s a lie. I’m not fine. I’ve had a really sucky day, and suddenly, it’s just all… too much.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “Sorry.” She gave a rueful smile. “I’ll try to pull myself together. You can just pretend I’m not here.”
“You wanna talk about it?” Whelan asked. This was unusual for him; he didn’t really engage with passengers. He liked a nice, clean transaction, but there was something different about this fare. She looked like she could use a friend.
