Page 14 of The Wedding Party

Chapter Twelve

ANDI

I end up in the hotel bar with Lana before heading to my room. During the short outing, Whit sends me three text messages. In between ignoring him and chatting with Lana, I down most of a burger and a few fries.

“What did you think of Carrie?” Lana asks. “A little starstruck, eh?”

“People get weird about law enforcement,” I say. “They either fear us, hate us, or idolize us.”

“I don’t fear, hate, or idolize you,” she says. “Maybe it’s because I knew you before you had a badge.”

“Or maybe you’re confident in who and what you are, and therefore who and what I am doesn’t faze you at all.”

“You don’t think Carrie’s confident in who she is?” she asks, sipping her soda. For now, we’ve avoided alcohol. After all, we do have drinks with everyone later.

As for Carrie, the answer that I keep to myself is no, she is not confident in who she is. It’s in her mannerisms, and most certainly her awkward obsession with my job. But one thing a fellow profiler told me during my training is to avoid playing FBI agent in social situations. It never leads anyplace good. I take that advice now and simply say, “I’m speaking generically. I don’t make it a habit of profiling people during social events.”

Which is not a lie. I don’t engage in many social events; therefore nothing related to such events can be called habits. Lana laughs. “Okay, that’s bullshit. And we both know that I’m not confident. I just got divorced. I’m that desperate chick who needs someone to tell me I’m beautiful.”

“Well, you are beautiful,” I say.

“Thank you,” she replies. “But I really need to hear that from a hot man right now.”

“You don’t need to hear that from a man. You are defined by no man. Just by yourself.”

“You’re right. You’re so very right.”

“And for the record, there’s a difference between an inborn insecurity and a situational insecurity. And don’t ask me to explain that.” I flag down the waitress. “I need to go unpack and get settled, and so do you.”

“Yes, me too,” she agrees. “And a fifteen-minute nap will do the body right.”

A few minutes later, I’m in the elevator alone when my phone buzzes with yet another text message from Whit: It’s not for me. It’s for the tormented families of the victims.

Whit knows how to push my buttons.

I finally make it to my haunted room, where a former housekeeper for the hotel is supposed to be present and gainfully employed as a ghost. Elizabeth, the staff tells me, likes to tidy up, and she often wedges herself between unwed couples. She’s quite traditional and old-fashioned. Not that I believe she exists, but the premise of Elizabeth works for me. I like tidy, and me and anyone but Aiden, who isn’t here, is a no-go. And even Aiden is questionable right now.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” I call out before setting my purse on the bed and removing my MacBook. With it in hand, I walk to the desk against the wall, settle into the chair, and power it to life.

I download the confidential file Whit has sent me and start looking over the case. After a few minutes of reading, I’m baffled by the crimes. A billionaire heiress and a teacher seem to have committed suicide, hanging themselves within twenty-four hours of each other, but the facts don’t add up. One of the victims is blonde and forty-five. The other is brunette and twenty-five.

And still, the police won’t connect the cases, which is why the family of the wealthy victim hired my father. I want to resist involvement because of that, but damn it, I’m intrigued. I remind myself that my father is capable, and neither Whit nor I should be working right now. We could both end up with longer leaves. And yet, what do I do?

I get to work on a profile of the killer.

It seems I just don’t know how to leave murder out of the weekend.

Chapter Thirteen

My uniform of a blazer and dress pants is officially off-limits this weekend. Therefore, when I meet Lana outside the bar at eight, I do so dressed in a pair of nice jeans, ankle boots, and a turquoise blouse.

“Any ghostly encounters?” Lana asks, looking all hip and pretty in her own version of nice jeans and a red blouse.

“Not a one,” I say. “Did you really think I would?”

She casts amused eyes on me. “You’re not a believer, I see,” she accuses.

“I believe in monsters,” I reply. “Not ghosts.”