Page 24

Damn, a dead girl in a hallway? What is this, 1700s France?

Still, I can’t stop thinking about the doe-eyed panic in Lacie’s eyes, how she absolutely fell to pieces right in front of me. How I couldn’t hold all of them.

And I shouldn’t, I remind myself. So what if some of her shatters? We all break, one way or another.

The cork pops out of the Brunello bottle, its earthy musk filling the air. I brought this one with me for a rainy day such as this; I just didn’t think I’d need to open the private stash quite so soon. But a dead body absolutely qualifies for mollification by rare wine.

There’s a light tapping at the door, and I turn from my immaculately set-up living space, glance in the mirror at my chic black silk nightie, and then go to open it. Bellatrix bats at my leg, tail lashing, from beneath the couch as I pass by.

Lacie, in an oversized Preston tee and pink PJ pants, looks up at me with shadowed eyes. She’s been crying, and something inside me gives a little rip of pain.

“Come in,” I murmur, standing to the side, and wordlessly, she does. She stands in the no-man’s-land between door and green velvet settee, her eyes running over the minimally decorated space, the cream-and-gray-checked Hermès throw.

It’s the best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. It’s a shame most people can’t tell that the settee is from the British House of Lords—stolen during the tumultuous year when Elizabeth ascended to the throne. The accent chairs are from IKEA. Ah, well.

Then I remember myself: I am the hostess, after all. “Glass of wine?”

Lacie’s head snaps around, like I woke her from a dream. “What?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“Sit, sit. Meet the cat.”

But she doesn’t. She stands there, hand rubbing the back of her neck beneath the fall of tangled blond, her glasses smudged again. “I— Look, I kind of want to just get in bed.” A hiccup of a swallowed sob muffles her voice.

“Come now. There is much to discuss.”

I pour two glasses, the dark ruby sparkling inside the Riedel glass. I place one into her hand, take the other, and lead her to the couch. Her hand, warm and soft in mine, tightens. When I look back at her, my brows raised questioningly, she merely squeezes tighter.

“Thank you for inviting me over,” she finally says, her words half whispered. I find I quite like her like this, scraped bare.

“Dear Lacie, of course. It’s the least I could do, given the circumstances.”

Nodding, she withdraws her hand and slouches into the corner of the couch, fingertips playing along the rim of her glass. It occurs to me that she likely hasn’t spoken to another soul since Laurel disappeared. Grabbing my phone, I fiddle with the music. Something soothing? Lacie’s just looking down at her glass, and that won’t do.

I wish she would cry. Or do anything. This wordless grief is vile. She hasn’t even taken a sip of her wine, which is a shame. I suppose we aren’t standing on ceremony at this late hour, so I take a deep swallow of my own, then place the glass down. Maybe that’ll start her off.

Bellatrix, curious about the incursion in her new territory, bounds from beneath the couch and settles half on my lap. Lacie stretches a tentative hand toward her, her eyes darting to mine. Ah. Finally. I warm to the possibility that a little slip of fur might do the trick to bring her out of her shell again.

“Go on. She’s friendly.”

Bellatrix nuzzles into Lacie’s palm, then glances at me. I give her a quick nod: yes, go ahead, and she clambers into Lacie’s lap with a purr that would put a Ferrari to shame.

“Aw,” Lacie whispers, her eyes lighting up. My throat tightens, watching her lips slip into a soft smile. Much better. “You’re a sweetie, aren’t you?”

“You know, she normally stays back with me.”

Lacie beams at me; she needn’t know this is a lie. “Really?”

“Truly. You must be wonderful with animals to have Bellatrix trust you so easily.”

“Well, I’ve always loved them. I didn’t grow up with cats, but I always wanted one. My parents were allergic, so…”

“A shame. Well, you’re welcome to snuggle her anytime you want, isn’t that right, Lovebug?”

Lacie giggles, the sound a mite raw from her sob-roughened throat. “Lovebug?”

I give her a conspiratorial grin. “Tell no one.”