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They missed Lori by twenty minutes.
She dragged herself home as the streetlamps flickered on. She’d planned to shimmy herself into the new dress she’d bought—along with Kasey—then hit the clubs. And just as they’d finished up a well-earned post-shopping/hair/nails eggplant pasta—splitting it to whittle down the calories and the cost—their friend Dru had tagged Kasey.
She didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But Dru had been so adamant, and then she and Kasey had both brought up the report on their new ’links.
Jerry, the man she’d lived with, slept with, had loved at least for a little while, was wanted for questioning by the police. Was a suspect in the murder of his parents.
God, Jerry’s parents were dead. She’d liked them so much, and now they were just dead. She’d never known anyone who’d been murdered, much less spent time with anyone who had been the way she had with Jerry’s mom and dad.
She really believed, down to her heart, it was all a terrible mistake. Yes, Jerry could fly off—and that time he’d hit her had shown her a side of him she couldn’t love or live with. But a couple of slaps, as wrong as they’d been, weren’t murder.
She’d thought about tagging him, but Kasey put the kibosh on that majorly. And had even insisted, when she’d just wanted to go home, they spring for a cab. No walking, no subway. It had taken some serious shoving to convince Kasey she didn’t need or want her to stay at her place.
She just wanted to go home, be alone, try to figure it out.
And she needed to cry some. Maybe a lot. For Mr. and Mrs. Reinhold, and for Jerry, too. For what she’d once imagined might be.
She shifted the shopping bags full of things she no longer wanted, keyed herself in. Because she wanted to get inside quickly, and she’d walked her ass off that day already, she took the elevator up. It clunked on her floor, creaked its way open.
And Ms. Crabtree pushed out of her own apartment before Lori reached her own.
“There you are! I was worried.”
“I … I did a lot of shopping.”
Ms. Crabtree narrowed her eyes. “You’ve heard. About that Jerry.”
“Just a little while ago. I think there must be a mistake, because—”
“Honey, the police were here. Twice. Looking for you.”
“Me? Why? Why?”
“Just to talk to you, about him. Why don’t you come on in here, and I’ll fix you some tea. No, hell with that. I’ll pour you a big glass of wine. I’ve got a nice bottle I’ve been saving since my birthday.”
“Thanks, but I just want to go home, and … I just want to go home and … be quiet, I guess.”
“All right. All right now.” Crabtree stroked a hand down Lori’s glossy, chestnut hair. “You look so pretty.”
“We … went to the salon.”
“I like your hair, the new color. New’s good. Here, this is the cop who came first. She wants you to contact her as soon as you can. I think you might feel better once you do.”
She’d never actually talked to any police—not officially—and it made her feel a little sick. “But I don’t know anything.”
“You never know what you know.” Ms. Crabtree tried a bolstering smile. “And this one struck me as smart. So you go ahead in and tag her up. If you change your mind about that wine and company, you just knock on the door. It doesn’t matter how late, okay?”
“Okay.” Lori looked at the card, read: Lieutenant Eve Dallas. “Oh, she’s the Icove cop. She’s Roarke’s cop.”
“That’s what it is.” Crabtree rapped her knuckles to her temple. “I knew I recognized something, but couldn’t bring it up. See, you never know what you know.”
“I guess you’re right. Thanks, Ms. Crabtree.”
“I’m right over here,” Crabtree reminded her, and stepping back into her own apartment, relaxed again.
Tucked in. Safe and sound.
Lori locked her door, added the deadbolt, the security chain.
