“Oh, no ... please ...” The words came out in a shattered whisper, my voice thin and trembling. I pressed my shaking fingers to my lips, but it couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped. “I don’t want people to know, Colton,” I whispered through the tears, my voice shattered.
“Told you,” Billy Ray said, going into the kitchen and rummaging through the fridge for a beer, then slamming the door shut so forcefully that it rattled. I heard the cap popping, then clattering into the garbage can. “She ain’t gonna do it, and I’m fine and dandy with that.”
Colton drew closer and took me in his arms, slowly, as if afraid I was going to scream or scratch his eyes out. “We need all the help we can get with this case. I’ll tell her to keep it short.”
I nodded, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “We’re losing, aren’t we?”
He pushed me far away enough to look me straight in the eye. “We’re not going to lose, all right? We’re fighting. That’s how trials are won. With witnesses and experts. I know what I’m doing.”
My stomach twisted. A shrink on the stand. My life, my past, laid bare for a courtroom full of strangers to dissect. The thought made me feel exposed, raw, as if they weren’t just bringing in an expert—they were prying me open and picking me apart, piece by piece, for everyone to see.
I swallowed hard, my mind scrambling for a way out. But there wasn’t one. If I fought this, I’d only be making things worse for myself.
I exhaled shakily. “Okay,” I said softly. My tears were gone, replaced by the decision to take some things into my own hands. Like poking a hole the size of a truck into Claire’s alibi. Colton didn’t seem at all preoccupied with doing that.
“She’ll want to sit down with you tomorrow.” Colton lifted my chin up a little with the tips of his fingers. I looked into his blue eyes and saw reassurance there, but some fear, too.
Funny how fear could take so many shapes and forms. It could cut through my heart, leaving me breathless. It could grip my gut with anguish. It could keep me up at night, or not let me touch any food. Or, it could surface in someone’s eyes—subtle, silent—spreading through the flicker of an expression, the tension in a jawline, the weight of words never spoken.
“That’s okay,” I said again, cringing at the thought of discussing my inmost secrets with a complete stranger, then having them pasted all over the tabloids and turned into stand-up comedy acts. Since I’d been charged with Winston’s murder, my life had stopped being my own. “Do what you think is best.”
I walked toward the door, seeing Billy Ray’s gaping mouth. I smiled at him reassuringly. “I’ll be okay, Billy Ray. I’ve gone through worse.” I wrapped my scarf around my head and put on the sunglasses.
“Where are you going?” Colton asked, frowning.
“Just for a drive,” I replied, holding out my hand to Billy Ray. “Borrow your truck?”
“Nah, take mine,” Colton said, giving me his keys, “and take Billy Ray’s phone with you.”
42
A Visit
I’d been at the Cosmopolitan before, for the Illuminate gala and then on the day Winston had been killed, though I’d never left my car then. This time was different. After parking Colton’s SUV, I took the elevator to the lobby, mentally noting everything—the number of elevators, where they stopped, and the path to suite 5003.
Getting there wasn’t easy. The elevators required a card for access, and the one Winston had given me had been taken into evidence by the police. A crisp hundred-dollar bill slipped into the sweaty hand of a bellhop procured me a new one. I remembered Claire using a card to access Winston’s penthouse and made a note to ask if the hotel had issued her one that day. Colton’s investigator could find out.
I held my breath swiping it against the panel, but the card was good, and the elevator set into fast motion. I rode up to the top floor, then waited nervously near the elevators for about forty minutes until a housekeeper appeared. She was young, Hispanic, with a sweet face and long brown hair.
“Excuse me,” I said, walking toward her with a spring in my step. “I wonder if you could help me.”
She managed a smile. “Yes?”
“We checked out of five-oh-oh-three, and I just realized I lost my earring,” I said, showing her a large diamond earring in my left ear, then my barren right earlobe. “Would you be so kind as to open the door for a minute? I won’t take long.”
She sized me up hesitantly. My entire strategy was based on finding the room empty. If guests occupied it, I was toast. She’d call security on me, and things would turn ugly. But what was another charge on top of murder one?
“Please?” I smiled, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into her hand. “No one needs to know.”
Reluctantly, she pushed her cart over to that suite, then ran her card to open the door. She didn’t ask me how I’d accessed the floor without a valid card.
I held my breath upon entering the luxurious suite. It was empty and recently vacated, with leftover drinks in a couple of glasses on the counter and ruffled sheets on the king-size bed. A faint smell of a woman’s perfume lingered—something delicate and exotic. The room looked just like in the crime scene pictures, except for the small pillows on the gray sofa. They were gray and blue, while the ones in the photos had been blue and yellow.
Touching the surfaces with the tips of my fingers, I forgot I was to pretend I’d lost an earring. I walked on the gleaming white marble to where Winston’s body had been found, and stared at the floor, in my mind, still seeing the blood smear, his hand reaching out. I wondered if he’d thought of me in his last moments. If he’d called my name.
“You’re that woman, aren’t you?” the maid asked, her voice riddled with fear. She spoke with a faint Spanish accent. “You’re going to make me lose my job,señora! Please leave.”
“I didn’t kill him, I swear,” I said quickly, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. “I just wanted to see—”
