Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  The bare spot on the window was aesthetically unpleasing. I hadn’t run out of things to say, so I wrote another note and stuck it up. I had to use the same piece of gum that had held the stalker note, but it was still pliable enough. Good thing; no way would I have put it back in my mouth to chew it again.

  I didn’t watch Wyatt to see what his reaction was. I didn’t care, because no matter what he did now, he was too late. She was long gone, and I was so far beyond pissed there were no words for it.

  I saw Wyatt coming toward the squad car, his face grim. I moved to the center of the seat, clutching the blanket around me, and faced forward.

  He came to the left door. As he opened it, I scooted all the way to the right. He leaned in and barked, “Are you sure? Can you give me a description? Where was she?”

  There was so much I wanted to say, beginning with Why bother now, she’s long gone, thanks to you being such an asshole, but I couldn’t say anything right now so I didn’t even try. Instead I grabbed my appointment book again, furiously scribbled “blond hair, wearing a hoodie, WAS in the crowd,” tore out the page, and extended my arm to give him the note. Looking for her now was a totally useless effort, no way was she still hanging around, but he wasn’t going to be able to accuse me of not cooperating. She had escaped, it was totally his fault, and I intended to keep it that way.

  Sometimes being morally superior is the only way to go.

  Wyatt quickly scanned the note, handed it to DeMarius, and began spitting out orders as he slammed the car door closed again.

  There are no words.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Eventually Wyatt came back to the squad car, but by then dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, which meant I’d been in that damn car for hours. Nothing was left of my condo except debris, stench, smoke, and some dully glowing embers that one unit of the fire department was hosing down. Wyatt’s truck was a goner, no doubt about it; so was the car parked next to it. The family who had lived next door huddled together, the little kids’ faces solemn and big-eyed, the parents clutching each other and the kids. Their place wasn’t a total loss, but they wouldn’t be living there again anytime soon.

  What had I done to make someone hate me so much that she’d not only try to kill me, but didn’t care if she also killed innocent people in the effort? Well, I mean other innocent people, because I couldn’t think of a thing I was guilty of that warranted killing. I try not to break any major laws, I don’t cheat on my taxes, and if someone gives me back too much change I always give them back the correct amount. I also tip twenty percent. There was no logical reason I could see for this kind of malice and destruction.

  Which meant the reason had to be illogical, right? I was dealing with a psycho. Their thought processes are warped.

  Wyatt strode through the mess and debris, his frustration and temper evident when he viciously kicked at a chunk of wood and sent it flying. I knew they hadn’t caught the blonde, because I hadn’t seen anyone being escorted into the back of any of the other squad cars—no, that honor was reserved for me, the victim—but then I hadn’t expected her to be caught because she was long gone by the time anyone paid any attention to me. Wyatt’s badge was clipped to his belt, he was armed, and his face and arms were black with soot. A fire is not neat. I could just imagine what I looked like—after all, I’d been in the place. Let’s just say it’s a wonder DeMarius had recognized me in the crowd, though maybe it had been my soot covering that gave me away.

  Opening the door, Wyatt leaned in and extended his hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  I didn’t have a home, thank you very much, and I wasn’t inclined to go to Wyatt’s. I wasn’t inclined to go anywhere with him. I thought I’d just go back to the police department with DeMarius, seeing as how I was in his squad car already.

  I didn’t say anything, of course, because I still couldn’t make a sound. I sat against the right side door, wrapped in the blanket, and stared resolutely ahead.

  “Blair—” His tone was heavy with warning but he bit off whatever he’d been about to say and instead leaned in and dragged me, blanket and all, out of the car, then simply swung me up in his arms. Wrapped up as I was, I couldn’t do anything to ward him off so I continued staring straight ahead.

  “Someone get those signs off the windows,” he ordered, and DeMarius leaned into the car and began plucking my messages free from the wads of gum. The gum, of course, remained behind. He also handed out the pieces of my cell phone as well as my tote, which had been knocked to the floorboard when Wyatt dragged me out, giving both to a female officer I didn’t know.

  “What happened to your phone?” Wyatt asked, frowning at it.

  I didn’t answer. Well, I couldn’t, could I?

  DeMarius straightened from the squad car, my chef’s knife in his hand and a stunned look on his face. “Holy hell,” he blurted.

  The knife must have fallen out of my tote when it had been knocked to the floorboard. A group of cops, both plainclothed and uniformed, had gathered in a loose knot around us and they all stared at my knife. The wide blade itself was a good eight inches long, and the entire thing measured about fourteen inches. I was proud, because it was an impressive sight.

  Wyatt sighed. “Just drop it in the bag,” he said.

  The patrolman with my tote pulled it open so DeMarius could deposit the knife, then said, “Wait a minute.” Reaching in, she pulled out my wedding shoes.

  They were beautiful, sparkling with rhinestones, the straps delicate works of art. They so obviously weren’t shoes you could wear to any job, unless you were maybe a Las Vegas showgirl, that looking at them was almost like disconnecting from reality. They were magic. They were a fantasy come to life, as if Tinker Bell had suddenly lit in her hand.

  “Don’t want to take the chance of cutting these babies,” she said in a properly awed tone. “Put the knife on the bottom.”

  Omigod, I hadn’t even thought of that. I was stricken. What if I’d accidentally scarred my shoes?

  DeMarius placed the knife in the bottom of the tote, then the female officer reverently put my shoes on top. DeMarius began shuffling through the notes in his hand. Sunrise was close enough now that they could be easily read without needing a flashlight. His eyes widened, and he made a choking sound.

  “What is it?” asked someone I recognized, Detective Forester, reaching to take the notes. He quickly flipped through them, his eyes widening, too, then he broke into a guffawing laugh that he tried and failed to convert to a cough.

  Wyatt sighed again. “Hand them over,” he said wearily. “Just stick them in the bag with the weapon and the fashion statement. I’ll deal with them later.”

  DeMarius grabbed the notes and hurriedly stuffed them into the tote; Wyatt sort of swung me around so he could take the tote into the hand that was clasping me under the knees. I glared at both DeMarius and Detective Forester. I’d been making various points with my notes, and they were laughing? Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t make a sound right then, because if I’d said what I was thinking, it’s pretty likely I’d have been arrested.

  “Good luck,” Forester managed to choke out, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. He didn’t say “you’ll need it,” but I was pretty sure he was thinking it.

  As Wyatt carried me to the car I refused to look up at him. Instead I watched the fire department units coiling up their hoses, while two men with “Fire Marshal” lettered on the back of their Windbreakers were poking around in the blackened rubble. The crowd of sightseers was slowly dispersing, some of them going to jobs, others hurrying to get their children ready for school. I also needed to be doing a bunch of things but just about all of them required talking, as well as clothing, so I foresaw a couple of problems there.

  I didn’t want to talk to Wyatt at all, but as he was currently my only means of communication, at least until I got to his computer, I’d have to at least write notes to him. This not-being-able-to-talk thing could get old in a hurr