“I’ll miss your backseat driving,” he said, “but I’ll survive.”
I smiled. We said goodbye.
“Never a dull moment for us,” Spike said.
“We should be so lucky,” I said.
—
Somebody must have alerted the press or posted about Leila Donnelly’s murder on social media. Because by the time I left the police barracks, there were three news vans setting up in the parking lot, plus dozens of amateur sleuths and/or fans milling around, some commiserating with one another, others trying to capture the moment—any moment—their phones up and recording. I searched the lot for Melanie Joan’s limo. I checked the parameters in particular, assuming that with this type of crowd forming, she’d want to keep her distance.
No sign yet.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I half-expected Melanie Joan, but instead I found myself inches away from a young woman with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, her hair done up in a messybun with a tiara shoved into it. I took a step back. She wore cargo shorts and a stained T-shirt that saidHappily Ever After. Oh, and she was also sporting angel wings. If the look she was striving for was “fairy princess after a weeklong bender,” she’d nailed it.
“Do you know anything about what happened to Leila?” the young woman said.
“I don’t,” I said. “Sorry.”
“I heard it was whatshername. Melissa Joan Hart. She killed Leila.”
For some reason, I felt the need to correct her. “Melanie Joan Hall.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Did you see her on that TV show? The morning thingy?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a clip online. She’s psycho.”
“I watched the whole thing and I didn’t think so.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. A little tired, maybe. Upset. But otherwise, sane.”You, on the other hand…I gave her what I hoped was a polite smile and took a step away.
She didn’t take the hint. “You want to know what I heard?”
“Not really.”
“I heard that Hart shaved Leila’s head after she killed her, and wove her hair into a shawl. That’s how they caught her. She waswearing the shawl.”
I stared at her for a few seconds. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a real thing that happened,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Um…It isn’t shawl weather?”
“You just don’t understand psychos,” she said.
“I suppose I don’t.”
“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “Leila’s books saved me.Mr. Forevergot me through the worst breakup of my life. It taught me that there’s a special plan for everybody. That there’s a Mr. Forever out there forme, and to trust my feelings and never settle and my Mr. Forever just might be Timothée Chalamet. Leila showed me this, with her beautiful, beautiful words.”
I glanced around the lot again. What was taking them so long?
“Now there won’t be any more Leila books,” she said. “No books, no messages. Do you even get how fucked-up that is?Do you?”
She was starting to genuinely scare me. I inched away some more, wondering if it was fair to judge an author by her fans. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I tried.
