Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  He had a real knack for turning the tables, I’ll give him that. He could make a point and turn a phrase so only someone small and petty could disagree with him. That’s okay; I don’t mind being small and petty. I reached out and pulled the notebook to me again.

  I’m not your problem anymore. As soon as someone gets here with some clothes for me, I’m so out of here.

  “That’s what you think,” he said calmly, after reading the note. “Your little ass is staying right here so I can keep an eye on you. You can’t stay with any of your family, you’d be endangering them if you did. Someone’s trying to kill you, and she doesn’t care if other people get hurt so long as she gets to you.”

  Damn, damn, damn! He was right about that.

  I wrote: So I’ll stay in a hotel.

  “No, you damn well will not. You’re staying here.”

  There was an obvious point to be made here, so I made it. And if she somehow follows me here? You’d be in just as much danger as anyone else I stayed with. And you’re called out a lot at night.

  “I’ll handle that aspect,” he said, after pausing only enough to read what I’d written, certainly not long enough to have given it any thought. “You have to trust me on this. An arsonist leaves clues behind, plus it’s standard procedure to videotape the bystanders at any murder or arson scene, and I clued everyone in while I was on the way that this was likely arson. A patrolman had the crowd on tape way before you spotted her. All you have to do is point her out to us, and we’ll take it from there.”

  That was a relief. He had no idea how big a relief, because he hadn’t been in that condo with me. I would have been much more relieved if she were already in custody, though, which she would have been if he hadn’t had me locked in that stinky squad car.

  I wrote, I know her face, I’ve seen her somewhere, but I can’t place her. She’s out of context.

  “Then someone else in your family, or even one of your employees, might recognize her. Of course, you saw her when she was following you, so that may be what you’re thinking about.”

  That was logical, but…wrong. I shook my head. I hadn’t been able to tell that much about her when she’d been following me, only that the driver was a woman.

  The sound of a car in the driveway caught our attention and Wyatt got to his feet. The sound continued around to the back, which meant it was either family or a friend; everyone else went to the front door. He opened the door into the garage and said, “It’s Jenni.”

  Wyatt had called Mom less than an hour ago, so I was surprised anyone had gotten here with clothes so soon. Jenni bounced into the kitchen with two Wal-Mart bags in her hands. “You have the most interesting life,” she commented, shaking her head a little as she placed the bags on the table.

  “Never a dull moment,” Wyatt agreed drily. “She also has complete laryngitis, from smoke inhalation, so she’s writing notes.”

  “So I see,” said Jenni, picking up the one that said ASSHOLE MEN. She studied it for a moment. “And very upset, too. It isn’t like her to be redundant.” Her back was to Wyatt, so he couldn’t see the mischievous wink she gave me.

  His only response was a snort.

  “Moving right along,” Jenni said breezily, opening the bags. “I was already awake and dressed, so when Mom told me I went straight to Wal-Mart. This is basics only, but that’s all you need today, right? Jeans, two cute tops, two sets of underwear, blow dryer and round hairbrush, mascara, gloss, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. And moisturizer. Oh, and a pair of loafers. I can’t vouch for their comfort, but they’re cute.”

  I dug out the sales receipt, nodding my liking for each item, and got out my checkbook to reimburse her. Because she was standing, she caught a glimpse of my wedding shoes in the tote, and gasped.

  “Oh. My. God.” Reverently she took one shoe out and balanced it on her hand. “Where did you get these?”

  I paused in writing the check, and on the notebook, I obediently scribbled the name of the department store. She didn’t ask how much they’d cost, and I didn’t volunteer the information. Some things are irrelevant. Those were my wedding shoes; cost wasn’t a factor in the decision to get them.

  “You are so lucky they were in your tote,” she breathed.

  I finished the check and tore it out, then shook my head and scribbled, They weren’t. I had to go back and get them.

  Of course, Wyatt saw me shake my head, and he strode over to see what I’d written. He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then his brows snapped together. “You risked your life for a pair of shoes?” he thundered.

  I gave him an exasperated look and wrote, Those were my WEDDING SHOES. At the time, I still thought I’d marry you. Now I know better.

  “Ooookay,” Jenni said, grabbing the check and turning on her heel. “I’m outta here.”

  Neither of us paid any attention as she went out the door. Wyatt said furiously, “You went back into a fucking burning building to get a pair of shoes? I don’t care if they’re gold plated—”

  I grabbed the notebook and wrote, Technically, no. I was still IN my bedroom when I remembered the shoes, and I went to the closet to get them. Then I slammed the pen down, gathered up my new clothing and paraphernalia, and took everything upstairs. And not to the master bedroom, either.

  Safely locked in the bathroom I’d used before, I mentally blessed Jenni for remembering the smaller items. I brushed my teeth, moisturized—my skin badly needed it, after being exposed to all that heat and soot, then being scrubbed with dish detergent—and dried my hair. By the time I was dressed, I felt human again. Very tired, but human.

  Wyatt was still waiting for me when I returned downstairs, not that I had truly expected him to leave without me. His expression lingered on the grim side, but he gave me a searching look and abruptly said, “You need to eat something.”

  My stomach agreed. My throat said no way. I shook my head, pointing to my throat.

  “Milk, then. You can drink some milk.” He always had milk on hand, for cereal. “Or oatmeal. Sit down and I’ll nuke us some oatmeal.”

  He was determined, and he was probably right; we both needed to eat, after the night we’d put in. It seemed days ago that he’d taken my answering machine to the police department for analyzing, when it was really fewer than twelve hours. Time flies when you’re jumping from the second story of a burning building, climbing fences, looking for psycho bitches to gut, and getting locked in a stinky squad car for hours while she makes faces at you.

  He took off his suit jacket and efficiently nuked two bowls of instant oatmeal, adding enough sugar and milk to mine to make it a little soupy. Cautiously I took a bite; it was nice and hot, and soft enough that I managed to swallow it even though it made me cough. Coughing wasn’t fun. I kept at it until I’d managed to eat half of the oatmeal, but the coughing that followed each bite was too rough on my throat, which already felt sand-blasted, so I gave it up after that. Maybe I should live on milk shakes, yogurt, and Jell-O for a few days.

  We cleared the table together, not that there was a lot of work to it: two bowls, two spoons, two coffee cups. When everything was stowed in the dishwasher, I got my tote—yes, he’d removed my knife—then looked at him and pantomimed turning a key in the ignition.

  “They’re still in the car,” he said, meaning my Mercedes. He’d be driving his city-issued cop car, the Crown Vic. I hated what had happened to his Avalanche. I’d seen one of the front tires flame up, so even though the fire department had immediately sprayed it with water I knew the damage was beyond repair. That close, the heat scorched the paint off, melted the headlights and top of the engine, did all sorts of nasty things. He was calm about losing the truck, but I guess he’d known from the beginning, having been to a lot of fire scenes, that it couldn’t be salvaged.

  Forget about the truck, he’d said. Are you sure you’re all right?

  Damn it. It wasn’t easy, staying angry at a man who loved you as much as you loved him.

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