“If Melissa doesn’t get the death penalty, then someone else will do the job.”
I shuddered.Would it help to explain due process? Probably not.
My phone pinged with a text. Saved by the bell. Literally.
It was from Melanie Joan:We’re across the street.
I looked up. Melanie Joan’s limo was parked against the curb, the hood shielded by a maple tree. “My ride’s here,” I told the fairy princess. Then I took off.
—
Charles hit the button, unlocking the doors. I slid in back, next to Melanie Joan, and slammed the door behind me.
“Who was that you were talking to?” she said.
“A lunatic,” I said.
“I guessed that from how fast you got away from her.”
“And maybe her outfit gave you a clue?” I said. “It’s a police station. Not Comic Con.”
Melanie Joan narrowed her eyes. “What was she saying?”
“Nothing important,” I said. “But promise me you will keep a low profile until they clear you.”
“Why?”
“Listen to her, Ms. Hall,” said Charles.
“Hire a bodyguard, too,” I said.
Melanie Joan peered out the window. The deranged fairy princess stared after us with her big, unhinged eyes.
“Thank God for tinted glass,” I said.
“Amen,” said Charles.
“I’m starting to get scared,” said Melanie Joan. “You’re scaring me, Sunny.”
“Better scared than dead,” Charles said. He pulled away from the curb slowly, his shoulders tensed, his face serious. “There’s a lot of fuckin’ weirdos out there. Pardon my French.”
I waited until we were away from the station and on the road to ask why the hell they drove back to Leila Donnelly’s house yesterday afternoon.
Thirty-three
Melanie Joan believed the Connecticut State Police were trying to pin a false narrative on her. She told me so. “I’d never kill anyone,” she said. “Not evenher.”
“I hope you didn’t phrase it like that with Gleason.”
“I’m not stupid, Sunny.”
“I didn’t think so.”
I took a good look at Melanie Joan. She was wearing an oversized black T-shirt, black leggings, her hair tucked into a baseball cap, her eyes hidden behind her ever-present sunglasses. Every part of her was shielded from view, save for her arms, which were noticeably bonier. She looked thinner as a whole, those usually cultivated muscles suffering from neglect. I wasn’t sure whether the change had been rapid or it had beengoing on for a while now and Melanie Joan had been dressing to hide it. Either way, it was startling.
“Are you getting a lawyer?” I asked.
She nodded. “I called my attorney in L.A. and he set up a meeting for me with Rita Fiore. Have you heard of her?”
