Page 93 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘Missing? What do you mean?’

‘She’s gone,’ I say. What else could missing mean? ‘We argued two nights ago and I haven’t seen her since.’

Travis’s face rearranges itself into concern. ‘And you haven’t heard from her?’

I take her battered phone out of my pocket, where I’ve been keeping it like some sort of talisman, and lay it on the table between us. Travis reaches for the phone and inspects it, his eyes widening when he sees the dark red stain.

‘Is this—’

‘Blood,’ I say. ‘Yes, it is.’

He sucks in a deep breath. ‘And you haven’t called the police?’

I sigh. ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘So, no.’

His eyebrow twitches slightly but his face remains neutral. Private investigators must meet people all the time who don’t want to involve the police. That’s pretty much their bread and butter, isn’t it? Helping people who have been let down by law enforcement.

We’re actually quite similar when you think about it.

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and takes out a small notebook and the stub of a pencil.

‘Let’s keep this simple then,’ he says, scribbling something down. ‘So it’s Antoinette Collins?’

‘Pemberton, actually,’ I say and he writes this down. ‘She’s my half-sister.’

‘And her date of birth?’

I tell him.

‘So you say you last saw her two nights ago? Walk me through it. What happened? What was she wearing?’

I describe Antoinette’s outfit to Travis, her slip dress, her vintage Chanel flats. ‘And a scarf,’ I say, remembering the pale pink silk fabric looped around her neck. She’s barely taken it off since I gave it to her that first day.

‘A scarf?’ Travis repeats, his brow troubled. ‘In LA?’

‘Not like a winter scarf,’ I say. Urgh. Men. ‘You know, like a delicate one. An accessory.’

‘Right, yes.’ He nods and scribbles something down. ‘And how was she? When you last saw her? Was she distressed? Did she seem worried about anything? Anything on her mind?’

Anything other than the producer she’d just stabbed in the neck?

I take a deep breath in. ‘We’d had a bit of a disagreement.’

Travis holds my gaze. ‘So you argued?’ he asks and sweat begins to bead on my upper lip. God, I can never get questioned by the police, without being nervous about giving away that we were arguing about her sloppy attitude to murder.

I’d fold like a deckchair.

‘A bit,’ I admit.

‘What about?’

‘I honestly can’t even remember,’ I lie and hope I’m doing a good job of it. ‘Just something silly.’ I give a little laugh that sounds fake even to my ears. ‘Sister stuff.’

Travis narrows his eyes at me. ‘Kitty,’ he says, ‘if you want me to help you then I need you to be honest with me.’

I sigh. ‘We just argued about some of her behaviour,’ I say.

‘Okay. In what way?’