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Lulu’s loft was a rectangle of space with a cluster of rooms in the middle. The floors were wide planks of well-used wood. The walls were sandblasted brick, and were hung with enormous paintings in brilliant colors, art show posters, and weavings of tufted yarn. She’d put some kind of colored plastic over the glass in the long row of casement windows, so a rainbow spilled into the loft from the streetlight outside.
There was a low couch along one wall, a plank coffee table in front of it. In the middle of the room sat a long table topped with rolls of canvas, cups of paintbrushes, and tubes and jars of paint. Part of the table slanted up to hold a work in progress at an anglefor easier painting. Lulu stood in front of it, dowsing a brush in clear liquid.
There was a kitchen along the wall in the middle, a long bank of open shelves and cabinets with an island in front. And on the facing wall, an old-fashioned secretary cabinet with an aluminum chair in front, a pile of bills on the open desktop.
“This place is... amazing.”
“Thanks.” She went to the sink, washed her hands.
“I brought coffee from Leo’s. Mocha for you; double espresso for me.” I put hers on the island, took mine, and opened the tab that kept liquid from sloshing in the Auto. They deducted extra funds from your account if you dirtied up the interior.
Lulu laughed. “You made it nearly forty-eight hours without a Leo’s run.”
“Not even,” I said. “My parents met me at the airport with a cup.”
“Addict.”
“Loud and proud.”
Lulu snorted. “Either way, thank you, because I need the jolt. I’ve been at this for hours.” She rolled her shoulders as she dried off her hands, then moved toward the coffee.
I walked to a bookshelf made of plumbing fixtures and unpainted boards, surveyed the photographs spread across the top. There was one of Lulu’s parents, one of the cat, and one of us. We’d been in junior high—made up almost entirely of knees and elbows—and convinced we were badasses.
“A lot of leggings in this picture,” I said lightly.
“And pointy eyeliner. We must have been going through a phase.”
“Evidently so.”
“Riley didn’t kill anyone,” Lulu said suddenly.
So much for the preliminaries.
I looked back and found Lulu at the island, one leg crossed over the other, the drink cradled in her hands. And misery in her eyes.
“No,” I said, walking back. “I don’t think he did. I think someone else did, then set him up for it.”
She looked up. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know yet. Have you talked to him recently?”
“No.” She adjusted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. “Not since the breakup, when we had to exchange some stuff. But other than that, no. I haven’t talked to him.”
She sipped her drink as if looking for something to do, something to fill the quiet that she couldn’t fill with words.
“He’s at the brick factory,” I said. “If you want to go see him, I mean.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” But the look on her face said she was conflicted.
“Okay.” I climbed onto a stool, sipped my coffee. “What about the Pack? Do you know of anything weird going on with them? Anything someone might target Riley about?”
“No, or not that I’m aware of.”
“Would you be?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve been at Little Red more in the last few weeks than I have in the past four years. So I’m around.” She lifted a shoulder. “You know they’re going to Alaska?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Riley was supposed to go with them. He won’t be going now—at least not until this is cleared up. But I don’t see how that would matter enough for someone to kill over it.”
