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What was she going to do? Were the cops going to interview her? Did they know that she and Jim had argued right in the middle of the Apex parking lot last week? Would she be a suspect? Would she be forced to tell them what she knew?
And, even scarier, was Jim dead? Had whoever he was working for killed him? Had he become a liability rather than an asset?
How would that impact her? Was she next on the hit list?
She
had to get out of here.
Grabbing her iPad, she opened up Facebook and began composing a private message to Julie.
Julie was dealing with her own fears, and the last thing on her mind was checking her Facebook messages.
She was at the gym, trying to go about her business, trying to distract herself. It worked pretty well when she was giving aerobics classes or working with individual clients. Not so well when she was in her office, lost in thought and imagining the worst. Milo was back in the apartment, locked away in his bedroom, pounding on his keyboard. When he was in that mode, he didn’t talk. He just worked. And Julie didn’t push him. She just prayed that, whatever he was doing, it pertained to their backdoor escape route. Because her nightmares were becoming vivid, and every time the front door of the gym jingled, she was terrified that killers were on their way in.
A little after three o’clock that Monday, her fears were realized—but in a completely different way.
The door did jingle, and, as she had for the past three days, she jumped in her office chair, her head shooting up so she could peer out front and see who had entered.
Two men in suits were showing ID to the receptionist at the desk. And, based on instinct and experience, Julie knew they were cops.
She whipped out her cell phone and called Milo.
“I’m working,” he answered.
“Two detectives are here,” Julie hissed into the phone.
“Where are they and where are you?” Milo demanded.
“They’re at the front desk. I’m in my office.”
“Get into your private ladies’ room—now. Stay there as long as a woman can pull it off. I’m on my way.”
Thank God they’d installed a small bathroom attached to Julie’s office.
She rushed inside and locked the door behind her. Going straight to the sink, she turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. Dragging air into her lungs, she looked up at the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were wide and terrified. And she was pale as a ghost.
She couldn’t face the police looking like this.
Carefully, she dried her face, trying not to wipe off her makeup. Her handbag was in her office, so she didn’t have access to anything replenishing. Time to improvise.
She pumped a little body lotion onto her palm and smoothed it over her hands and lips. Close enough to lip gloss—at least her mouth looked full and soft rather than drawn and naked. And her hands looked as smooth as her manicured nails.
That done, she combed her fingers through her hair and played with it until it looked stylish and put-together. She adjusted her Lycra workout outfit, which was form-fitting and needed little help to look good. Then, she pinched her cheeks, bringing some much-needed color into them.
Last and most important, she forced the terrified look from her eyes and replaced it with calm professionalism. She’d done enough acting in her life. It was time to do some more.
A tentative knock at the bathroom door. “Julie?”
“Yes, Marti?”
Her receptionist made an audible swallow. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but there are two detectives up front who want to speak to you. What should I do?”
The poor girl was in total freak-out mode. Not that Julie could blame her.
“I’ll be right out to handle it,” Julie called back. “It’s probably about the robbery attempt in the jewelry store down the street.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Of course.”
